Never Say Spy (The Never Say Spy Series Book 1)

by Diane Henders

  He searched my face. “There’s no other answer to that question, is there? If you’re an agent, you’d have to tell me that.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I just gave him a half-smile and a shrug. No way to prove a negative.

  He reached for my hand and held it gently. “All right. If that’s the way it has to be. But if you ever need help, you have my number.” He leaned down and kissed me lightly, his lips barely brushing mine.

  The touch jolted through me, and my grip tightened on his hand. Our eyes met.

  “Tell me if you feel sexually harassed by anything I’m about to do,” I said.

  I pulled him down into a hungry kiss and felt his lips curve up against mine. He kissed me back, hard, his hands knotting in my hair. I ran trembling hands over his massive arms and chest, the heat of his muscles burning through his T-shirt and igniting my body.

  Breathless with lust, I teased his lips with the tip of my tongue. He growled and backed me up against the wall while we devoured each other. His knee pushed between my legs, and fire spread low and fast while I made slow circles against his hard thigh.

  When he pulled away abruptly, I let out an involuntary whimper and braced myself against the wall to keep my knees from buckling. His chest rose and fell with his unsteady breathing, his eyes dilated black.

  “I can’t do this,” he said hoarsely. “I have to catch this flight. National security. No choice. I’m late already.”

  I swallowed hard and straightened, trying to catch my breath. “Okay,” I said, my voice almost as husky as his. “Take care. Stay safe.”

  He nodded. “You, too.”

  He hesitated, then turned on his heel. I propped myself against the door to watch while he strode to his SUV. He swung into the vehicle and drove away without looking back.

  Damn.

  A Request

  Thanks for reading!

  If you enjoyed this book, I’d really appreciate it if you’d take a moment to review it online. If you’ve never reviewed a book before, I have a couple of quick videos at http://www.dianehenders.com/reviews that will walk you through the process.

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  Books in the NEVER SAY SPY series:

  Book 1: Never Say Spy

  Book 2: The Spy Is Cast

  Book 3: Reach For The Spy

  Book 4: Tell Me No Spies

  Book 5: How Spy I Am

  Book 6: A Spy For A Spy

  Book 7: Spy, Spy Away

  Book 8: Spy Now, Pay Later

  Book 9: Spy High

  Book 10: To be released 2015

  Humour by Diane Henders

  Probably Inappropriate

  Definitely Inappropriate

  Totally Inappropriate

  More books coming! For a current list, please visit www.dianehenders.com

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  www.dianehenders.com/books

  About Me

  By profession, I’m a technical writer, computer geek, and ex-interior designer. I’m good at two out of three of these things. I had the sense to quit the one I sucked at.

  To deal with my mid-life crisis, I also write adventure novels featuring a middle-aged female protagonist. And I kickbox.

  This seemed more productive than indulging in more typical mid-life crisis activities like getting a divorce, buying a Harley Crossbones, and cruising across the country picking up men in sleazy bars. Especially since it’s winter most of the months of the year here.

  It’s much more comfortable to sit at my computer. And hell, Harleys are expensive. Come to think of it, so are beer and gasoline.

  Oh, and I still love my husband. There’s that. I’ll stick with the writing.

  Diane Henders

  Since You Asked...

  People frequently ask if my protagonist, Aydan Kelly, is really me.

  Yeah, you got me. These novels are an autobiography of my secret life as a government agent, working with highly-classified computer technology… Oh, wait, what’s that? You want the truth? Um, you do realize fiction writers get paid to lie, don’t you?

  …well, shit, that’s not nearly as much fun. It’s also a long story.

  I swore I’d never write fiction. “Too personal,” I said. “People read novels and automatically assume the author is talking about him/herself.”

  Well, apparently I lied about the fiction-writing part. One day, a story sprang into my head and wouldn’t leave. The only way to get it out was to write it down. So I did.

  But when I wrote that first book, I never intended to show it to anyone, so I created a character that looked like me just to thumb my nose at the stereotype. I’ve always had a defective sense of humour, and this time it turned around and bit me in the ass.

  Because after I’d written the third novel, I realized I actually wanted other people to read my books. And when I went back to change my main character to not look like me, my beta readers wouldn’t let me. They rose up against me and said, “No! Aydan is a tall woman with long red hair and brown eyes. End of discussion!”

  Jeez, no wonder readers get the idea that authors write about themselves. So no, I’m not Aydan Kelly. I just look like her.

  Bonus Stuff

  Here’s an excerpt from Book 2: The Spy Is Cast

  The ring of the phone made me swear. Extricating one arm and half my face from the toilet tank, I stumbled over the tools strewn on the floor. On the fourth ring, I snatched up the receiver with a dripping hand just as my answering machine kicked in.

  “Hang on,” I advised the caller, waiting for the message to finish playing. I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder and dried my hands on my baggy jeans while I waited.

  “Hello?” I inquired when the line was clear.

  “Is this Aydan Kelly?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Aydan, it’s Clyde Webb calling...”

  “Spider!” I interrupted, smiling. “How the hell are you?”

  He sounded pleased. “You remembered!”

  “Of course I remembered. You never forget your first.”

  “Your first what?” he asked warily.

  “The first guy you hit ‘til he pukes. I still feel bad about that.”

  He laughed. “It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault... but, uh... about that...” His voice took on a wheedling note. “Aydan, how would you like to go to a gala affair? Dining and dancing, fabulous food and drink, rubbing shoulders with the cream of society?”

  I looked down at my sweaty T-shirt and grubby jeans. “Um, Spider, I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

  “No, I haven’t,” he insisted. “It would be a thank-you for all you did for us back in March. You deserve a luxurious evening out!”

  “Spider...” I paused, trying to be tactful. “I hate dressing up. I hate crowds. I hate making small talk with strangers. And I hate to remind you, but I’m the same age as your mother.” I thumped my forehead with my free hand. I don’t really do tact well.

  “Oh, I wasn’t asking you t
o go with me. Although I’d be proud to go with you,” he added gallantly.

  I laughed. He was such a nice kid. Well, twenty-something. Not really a kid.

  “Okay, what’s this about, then?” I asked.

  “I’m asking you to go with Kane.”

  “What, you’re Kane’s social secretary now? Tell him he can ask me himself. He’s a big boy.”

  I grinned, remembering tall, muscular John Kane with salacious appreciation. He was definitely a big boy. Too bad I’d never gotten the opportunity to find out exactly how big.

  “Oh, he doesn’t know I’m asking you,” Spider replied.

  “Whoa, hold on, Spider. What’s really going on?” I asked, instantly suspicious.

  “I can’t tell you over the phone,” he confessed. “I was hoping you’d be able to meet me. It’s important.”

  I churned my free hand through my tangled hair, pulling the elastic out of my ponytail and yanking the knots out of the curly bits at the nape of my neck. “Important, as in ‘national security’ important?”

  “I really can’t talk about it over the phone,” he repeated.

  I sighed. “Okay. Where and when do you want to meet?”

  “Can you meet now?”

  “Why, are you standing on my front step?”

  “No,” he replied sheepishly. “I meant, how soon can you get here?”

  “I presume ‘here’ means your office in Silverside?”

  “Yes. Sorry, I’m just... Can you come? I hate to bother you, but it’s...”

  “Important. Yeah, I got that. Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. “It’ll take me about half an hour to get there, though. Unless you really want me to show up in the same clothes that I wore to fix the toilet.”

  “Um, no.” He sounded uncomfortable. “Business attire would be better.”

  “What the hell, Spider?” I demanded. “Business attire? Since when?”

  “Just... can you? Please?”

  “Okay, for you. I’m on my way.”

  I hung up the phone, frowning. The disorganized and stilted conversation was so unlike Spider that a tingle of apprehension made me hurry to my closet.

  I scowled at my business clothes, hanging clean and pressed, neatly organized by colour.

  I really hate dressing up.

  I swallowed a growl and stripped off my dirty clothes, yanking on a pair of slim cream-coloured pants and a short-sleeved green blouse.

  Doing a quick mirror check, I flapped my hair up and down in an attempt to dry some of the sweat, and reassured myself the blouse adequately camouflaged the extra ten pounds around my waist. Someday I’d lose that.

  Right.

  I dragged a brush through my hair and decided to leave it loose. If Spider thought I needed to dress up, it probably meant I’d be meeting somebody important. My long red hair was my best feature. Well, mostly red. The grey wasn’t too noticeable yet.

  I put on a pair of flat shoes and stuffed my waist pouch inside one of my enormous handbags. Normally, I wear the waist pouch everywhere, but even I don’t have enough chutzpah to defy the fashion police and wear it with business clothes.

  On my way across the yard, I slicked on a bit of tinted lip gloss, managing to keep it in the general vicinity of my lips.

  Despite my growing sense of urgency, I let my steps slow while I enjoyed the view. I’d moved onto my farm in March when everything was winter-brown, and the greens of July were still a delightful novelty. I let my eyes rest on the long vista of rolling farmland and took a deep breath of country-fresh air before hurrying into my beloved four-car garage, patting the hoods of my automotive friends as I passed.

  My faithful ’98 Saturn waited in the last bay, and I skimmed my fingertips over its front quarter panel as I made my way to the driver’s door. The local body guy had done an excellent job. You’d never know there had been a bullet hole in it.

  Turning off my gravel road onto the pavement, I headed for town, curiosity warring with nervousness. The last time I’d gotten involved with these guys, it had cost me in blood. Spider’s agitated demeanour hadn’t reassured me one bit.

  In the tiny town of Silverside, I navigated through the two-block business district and turned into the semi-residential area that housed Spider’s and Kane’s shared office. Pulling up in front of the small house, I swallowed a faint queasy sensation.

  In the summer, the yard was mowed and well-tended. Perennial shrubs framed the house and accented the modest sign that read ‘Kane Consulting’ and ‘Spider’s Webb Design’. It looked welcoming and benign. I wasn’t fooled.

  I took a deep breath before walking up to the front door. Tapping the knocker, I stuck my head inside. The shared office space in the converted living/dining area was empty, but I went in anyway, calling out a hello.

  Spider appeared from down the hallway, his tall, skinny body and lanky limbs clad in a dark suit, blue shirt, and tie. My mouth fell open.

  “Who are you and what have you done with Spider?” I ribbed him.

  He grinned and twitched his shoulders in a nervous shrug. “Aydan, it’s great to see you. You look great. As usual.” He gave me a quick, awkward hug. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied. “You?”

  “Great!”

  I frowned. “I keep hearing the word ‘great’. Why does that make me nervous?”

  He shuffled his feet. “We need to go into our meeting now. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Just a glass of water, please.” My trepidation cranked up a notch while I waited for him to return from the kitchen. Something was definitely up.

  He handed me the glass and ushered me down the hallway to the converted bedroom that served as a meeting room. I paused in the doorway, surveying its two occupants.

  One dark suit, white shirt, quiet tie. One military uniform, loaded with braid.

  Oh, shit.

  When I stepped cautiously into the room, both men rose. Neither was as tall as Spider’s beanpole six-foot-two, but they shared an almost-palpable air of authority. While Spider made the introductions, I assessed them, trying to figure out what this was all about.

  “General Briggs, I’d like you to meet Ms. Aydan Kelly,” Spider mumbled without making eye contact. The general stepped forward, stretching out his hand, and I received a firm, dry handshake.

  He was a fit-looking man with piercing blue eyes, his short grey hair in a precise cut. His seamed face gave the impression of too much time outdoors rather than advancing age. I placed him in his late fifties at a guess. His ramrod-straight posture made him seem tall, but in fact he stood only about an inch taller than my five-foot-ten.

  “And this is Mr. Charles Stemp,” Spider introduced the other man. Stemp extended his hand, too, his movements as sinuous as a snake. He looked fit as well, and very tanned. His short-cropped sandy hair was almost the same colour as his skin, and his eyes were an odd shade of light brown, almost amber. His monochrome colouring and flat, expressionless eyes reminded me of a rattlesnake. Jeez. No wonder Spider was nervous.

  “Mr. Stemp is the civilian director of our INSET team,” Spider explained, referring to the counter-terrorism unit to which he and Kane ostensibly belonged. “General Briggs is Kane’s commanding officer.”

  That was where things got a little more complicated. In lighter moments, I had nicknamed Kane ‘James Bond’.

  Spider drew me further into the room. “Have a seat,” he invited. I perched warily, wondering why the big guns were here. The others resumed their seats as well.

  “Ms. Kelly,” the general began. “So nice to meet you at last.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I put on my best pleasant smile. “It’s nice to meet you, too, General Briggs.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice,” he continued. “This meeting is rather overdue, and I apologize for the long delay. Our country owes you a debt of gratitude, and we would both like to offer you a sincere thank you for your assistance in Mar
ch. Your bravery and self-sacrifice did not go unnoticed.”

  I squirmed. “I appreciate the kind words, but I didn’t really do anything. I was a dumb civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m just glad everything worked out all right.”

  The general’s eyes bored into me. “I read the reports. I beg to differ. You uncovered a potentially disastrous security breach. You withstood torture to protect our national security. You saved the life of one of our top agents.”

  I shook my head. “It sounds good when you say it like that, but really, it was your team who pulled it all out of the fire. I was just along for the ride.”

  He smiled. “That may be true, but the entire operation would have failed without your unique talents.”

  “The whole thing was pure dumb luck on my part,” I muttered. “Your team did all the work.”

  “I’m glad you’re loyal to the team,” Stemp said, his voice betraying no emotion whatsoever. “How would you like to help them again?”

  Warning bells clamoured in my brain. “Help them how, exactly?” I asked slowly.

  “We are chronically understaffed,” the general explained. “We have a situation in which a female agent is required, and we have none currently available. The mission would entail almost no risk. In fact, you would probably find it quite enjoyable. We thought of you because of your excellent performance this spring, and because you already have the sufficient security clearances.”

  I hid my surprise and suspicion in a casual tone. “When did that happen? I’m just a bookkeeper. A civilian. I don’t recall doing any applications for security clearances.”

  “You were thoroughly investigated in March,” Stemp replied. “And your knowledge of our secured facilities and clandestine activities in effect gives you a top-level clearance. You already know more than many of our agents.”