License to Thrill (8 page)

•  •  •

I really need a mental health break, Jo thought. She leaned back from the desk and closed her eyes, ignoring the boring Portuguese document in front of her. She felt a light tap on her arm and jumped. She glanced up, ready to apologize to Sandra for loafing. Instead she stifled a gasp. The eyes she was looking into belonged to none other than Jonathon Nicholson!

“Yes?” she asked, trying to act clueless over his identity.

“I don't believe we've met.” He extended a hand and flashed her a smile. “Jonathon Nicholson.”

Jo struggled to keep the displeasure off her face. Slimeballs like Jonathon made her want to blow chunks. “Um, Natascia Sanchez,” she said, shaking his hand and noticing its silky smoothness, the firm grip. Boy, do I have mixed feelings about this guy, she thought. Like someone took my emotions and tossed them in a Cuisinart or something.

“It's a pleasure,” he replied, then looked around at the
other translators. “Excuse me, everyone. I need to know if anyone here speaks Arabic.”

“Um, a little,” Jo lied, tentatively lifting her hand skyward. If Jonathon bought her baloney, she figured that could get her into a face-to-face meeting with the ringleader of this whole shebang. She could always get The Tower to wire her to a real Arabic translator or something so no one would ever be the wiser. She certainly couldn't do that this very second, however. “I'm . . . I'm pretty rusty, though, and I'm also
totally
busy with this document—”

“Yes, I can see that,” Jonathon said, a look of genuine relief flooding his handsome features. “Well, I don't need your services just yet, but I'll definitely be in touch.”

As he departed, Jo bit her lip. She was happy her boss wasn't in to witness her white lie, but she
really
hoped she wasn't in over her head.

•  •  •

“TGIF,” Caylin said, kicking off her shoes the moment she entered the hotel suite. “Ugh! Thank goodness I've got Monday off. I don't think I can take much more of this.”

“Yeah, we've got Monday off too,” Theresa said with
a wave, her eyes glued to the TV set. “What's this bank holiday thing all about, anyway?”

“It's kinda like Presidents' Day, but it happens three times a year,” Jo explained. “Sandra told us non-Brit translators all about it.” She sighed. “Listen, change of subject. I told a huge lie today, and I'm really worried I messed up.”

“What about?” Caylin asked, pausing in the doorway.

“She told Jonathon she spoke Arabic,” Theresa said. “I told her it was no biggie.”

“Well, he
asked
, and I said I did just in case it had something to do with the disc,” Jo admitted, stomach clenching.

“You were
improvising
, not screwing up,” Caylin told her. “Give me a break. You had the chance of a lifetime and you took it. I'd have done the same thing.”

“Yeah, I guess it's not so bad,” Jo lied. She smiled confidently, but inside she was all butterflies. “But now I hope I
don't
get to make good on it. If I have to get wired to a translator, I'll scream. Those stupid things are so itchy, and I'd have to wear a baggy blazer to hide it.” She shivered. “If it ain't tight, it ain't right—that's my motto.”

Theresa laughed. “Hey, hurry up and get changed, Cay. I got an e-mail from Uncle Sam, and we're supposed to check in tonight. Something about a new assignment.”

“Well, do
I
have a story for him,” Caylin called, voice slightly muffled. “And maybe he has a story or two for us about Devaroux's date book. I'll be out in two shakes.”

As soon as she returned to the living room in a sweatshirt and jeans Caylin dialed Uncle Sam. Jo's anxiety mounted with each digit she punched.

“Hello, ladies,” Uncle Sam said, a Will Smith poster hanging in place of his silhouette.

Jo laughed in spite of herself. “Whoa, Sam, cuttin' loose!”

“I always suspected you were a Man in Black,” Theresa joked.

“Okay, okay—so he's gettin' jiggy wit' it,” Caylin said impatiently. “Listen, something weird happened today.”

“What is it?” Uncle Sam asked.

“Jonathon was completely rude to me,” she said. “This, after he was so sweet to me yesterday. The bugs are all copacetic, but still, I think he may be onto me or something.”

“Don't jump to conclusions,” Uncle Sam suggested. “Anyone else have any contact with him today?”

Jo nodded, taking a deep breath. “Well, he came in and introduced himself, then asked us—the translators—if we spoke Arabic. Then I, uh, told him I did, even though I don't. I just didn't know what else to do.” She paused, feeling sick to her stomach. “I mean—I don't speak Arabic, obviously, but what if this is the key that we need?”

“Don't worry,” he said after a beat, instantly alleviating Jo's tension. “You did the right thing. We could easily cover you when the time comes. But he wasn't rude or upset when he came into the translation office?”

“Quite the contrary, really,” Jo said in relief. “All smiles.”

“Well, how about you, Theresa?” Uncle Sam asked. “Anything?”

She shook her head. “Not a thing. I guess Friday is a slow day on the phones. I have absolutely nothing to report. Not even a call from Alfred.”

“That's okay,” Uncle Sam said. “You'll have lots to do next week after the holiday. Caylin, I'd like you to plant
some bugs in the Nicholsons' offices on Tuesday—those will be ready at the hotel desk Monday afternoon in a faux tube of toothpaste.”

“Check,” Caylin croaked out. She sounded almost bored by the idea. “Hey, was there any word on Devaroux's date book?”

“Clean as a whistle,” Uncle Sam replied. “Nothing that appears to be of any importance.”

Caylin swore under her breath. From the looks of her, it was hard to tell if she was inspecting her split ends or about to tear her hair out. Theresa slumped back against the couch, deflated. She picked up a Ritz notepad and began scribbling on it aimlessly. The sight of them made Jo's heart sink along with her spirits. Getting nowhere was getting the best of them all.

“May I make a suggestion?” Jo asked, breaking the silence. “Considering Caylin's run-in with Jonathon and my little stress attack, maybe we should take it easy this weekend. See the sights, have some fun. We've been kind of missing out in those departments lately, and I think we could use a break.”

“There's not much we can do in the embassy on a weekend, anyway,” Theresa added.

“I have to agree,” Caylin chimed in. “I'm feeling a little frustrated, to be honest. It's really ticking me off.”

“Well, unless an emergency development arises, consider yourselves on vacation till Tuesday,” Uncle Sam announced.

Jo cheered. The news was music to her ears. She
needed
a break, that was for sure. She looked at the others in glee. Caylin had perked up instantly, and Theresa was drawing a big smiley face on the memo pad. They were ready for London, all righty. She just hoped London was ready for them.

•  •  •

After a full Saturday of shopping till they dropped, Jo, Caylin, and Theresa rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor of the Ritz, arms overloaded with packages and their weekly Tower stipends almost exhausted.

“I can't believe you bought three stuffed animals and no clothes, T.,” Jo said in confusion.

“I love animals way more than I love outfits,” Theresa
said, not one bit embarrassed. “These were too cute to resist.”

“To each his own.” Caylin laughed. “I'm just happy I got all this yummy bath stuff. This is really going to relax me.”

As they entered the suite Jo said, “Right now we need to do the
opposite
of relaxing. What do you say to a night on the town? We can get dolled up and head out to the nearest club. I hear they get pretty crazy here—all ages, techno music, nonalcoholic smart drinks, dancing till dawn. How 'bout it?”

Caylin jumped up and down with excitement. “Sounds awesome, possum!”

“I don't know . . . ,” Theresa said nervously. “We don't really know our way around yet.”

“So we'll take a cab,” Jo said, running to her closet. “It's time to let loose, Theresa.”

Without a word Theresa went into the nearest bathroom and stared into the mirror. Looking back was a cute girl in the prime of her life who was too scared to live it. Well, she wasn't holding herself back anymore.

“Does anybody have a bright red lipstick I could
borrow?” Theresa called, running a finger over her naked lips. “My lipstick cam isn't going to cut it tonight!”

•  •  •

Meltdown, “the hottest club in the galaxy,” according to the cabdriver, was crammed to the gills.

Caylin immediately dashed onto the dance floor and began tearing it up in her little red dress and stiletto heels. She didn't care that she didn't have a partner—she was sure there wasn't a guy in town who could keep up with her, anyway. For Caylin, dancing was a totally personal issue, one that didn't need to be shared. She closed her eyes, letting the ambient beats carry her far away from her stress and into the zone where nothing mattered but music and movement.

She immersed herself in full bliss, but a light body slam jarred her out of it abruptly. She whirled around and saw Theresa giggling madly in her black jeans and baby T.

“You go, girl!” Theresa hollered over the music. “How can you dance to this stuff? It's so . . . bland.”

“Techno rules!” Caylin shimmied to the quickening beat. “Come on, you try it.”

“No way,” Theresa demurred. “I can't dance when the music's got no soul.”

“I can't believe you're not into this stuff,
techie
.”

“Hey, computers are good for a lot of things, but making music is
not
one of them.” Theresa bounced up and down to the beat. “I feel so stupid!”

“Who cares? Have some fun for once.” Caylin spun around and spotted Jo at the edge of the dance floor, looking beyond stunning in her white Armani halter dress. She was flirting madly with two guys at the same time. When another guy rushed over to give her a drink, Caylin burst out laughing.

She glanced away toward the bar, where someone appeared to be giving her the eye. A woman, she realized. She froze instantly. The brunette sat alone, sipping a glass of something orange. She looked familiar—a little
too
familiar.

The realization hit Caylin like a bolt of lightning: Short Hair! Her pulse raced out of control as she watched the woman take a dainty sip of her drink, suddenly oblivious to Caylin's stare down.

“What's wrong?” Theresa asked over the music. “Is this a bad song? I can't tell the diff—”

“Short Hair! At the bar!”

Alarm clouded Theresa's features. “What? Where?”

Caylin pointed back over her shoulder. She scanned the crowd for Jo but couldn't find her anywhere. A tap on her shoulder sent her reeling around, ready to drop-kick Short Hair in a millisecond.

“Hey! Hey!” Jo yelled, holding her hands up defensively. “Some freaky moves you've got there,
Jackie Chan 
!”

•  •  •

“Okay, here comes the strategy,” Caylin announced in the middle of the dance floor. “We chase Short Hair down and demand to know why she's following us. Tell her we have photographic evidence. Theresa's been right all along—this woman's obviously working for the enemy. Let's rock!”

Caylin darted off instantly before Jo could even begin to process the information. Shrugging, Jo followed, weaving and pushing her way through the thick crowd, making about an inch per hour. Her left ankle buckled as her platform sandal skidded on the drink-slick floor. With a sigh of
lament she kicked off her sandals completely. She'd be better off with grungy feet than a sprain, after all. Barefoot, Jo struggled to catch up, grimacing as she ran over pools of sticky spilt drinks and gross cigarette butts. Suddenly the music cut off and the club went totally dark. Jo stopped in place, blinded.

“Uh, we're the Scorching Radiators,” a guy announced over the PA.

Jo turned around and saw a spotlit Pete Wentz look-alike front and center on the stage. He made chopping motions at a silver guitar. “Check—one, two.
Onetwothreefour!
”

Painfully loud industrial noise filled the club as the lights went back up. A mosh pit quickly formed, clogging Jo's path to the bar. She ground her teeth in frustration as she was battered back and forth. Her bare feet were definitely in danger, but it hardly mattered. She had to find Caylin and grab Short Hair before she got away.

With a shock Jo looked up to see someone being passed over her head—someone in a tiny red dress who was kicking angrily at the moshers with stiletto heels. Caylin! In a
second she was whisked away, out of Jo's reach. Undaunted, Jo pushed ahead, desperate to make it to the bar. But when she was about midway through the pit, Short Hair's gaze met hers and she instantly ducked into the thickening wave of people. Cursing, Jo turned sharply left and bulleted forward. She immediately ricocheted off a burly guy in a satin rugby shirt.

“Watch it!” he bellowed. His drink toppled and spilled all over her white dress. Probably on purpose. She hardly noticed as she squeezed past him and searched frantically for the black leather outfit, the tall frame, the pouty lips. But all of the above were MIA at the moment.

•  •  •

“Wait—there she is—over there!” Theresa screamed over the noise. She ran like mad after the glossy cap of brown hair and spotted a barefoot drink-stained apparition on her right. “Don't just stand there!” she hollered, grabbing Jo by the arm and yanking her in the right direction.