On Best Behavior (C3) (19 page)

“There’ll never
be
a next time,” Grant replied. “I knew I should’ve refused to wear the uniform. You just don’t do that. I’ve made a complete mockery of the Navy.”

“I don’t think so. I agree with the captain. You look like you were born to wear it.”

Grant looked down at his tunic, fitted neatly over his chest. He wished he’d never have to take it off again.

But that wasn’t his biggest regret. Being on base again, sitting in this familiar office, interacting with the captain…he wished he’d never taken that gun from Logan.

11. Convene

T
HE
N
EXT
D
AY
, Grant flipped up the collar of his long winter coat and cupped his gloved hand over his face, hoping to thaw out the frozen tip of his nose. It was almost March, yet it felt like January. He scanned the street one more time but saw just the typical after-school traffic: dilapidated school buses and soccer moms in minivans picking up their high-schoolers. No Russian mobsters in sight.

As he bounced on his numbing feet, he wondered if the trembling in his torso was due to the cold or his stress. Although there’d been a blessed reprieve from the nightmares, he still wasn’t sleeping well. Tomorrow night, the deal with the naval officers would go down—sooner than he’d expected. And the moment he thought about Sophie only one floor away from his apartment—the place Andrei knew he lived—his heart would thunder and not slow down for hours. He hadn’t even visited her lately, too worried he might be followed.

All of this combined to make him incredibly foolish right now: hiding in the shadows of an alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of his fiancée. Before arriving, he’d traveled all over the city in an attempt to ditch any potential tail. He seemed to be in the clear now, but he never felt entirely sure. All he knew was he had to see her, and she’d told him she’d started joining Ben for his swim practices on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So he’d planted himself on the path from the school to the pool.

Suddenly he heard Ben’s voice drifting his way. “Fuck, it’s cold!”

The click of Sophie’s heels on the sidewalk provided background music. “It
is
cold,” she agreed, “but Grant probably wouldn’t want you using that word.”

“Not like he cares,” Ben grumbled.

“
What?”
When Sophie stopped right next to the open alley, Grant plastered himself against the dirty brick wall. “Your uncle cares deeply about you!”

“Then why doesn’t he come see me anymore?”

“Ben, we’ve talked about this. It’s temporary. He’ll be back.”

“Right.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “That’s what Mom always said about Dad.”

From the shadows, Grant watched Sophie, her face a mix of sadness and frustration. “My mom used to say that about my dad too…when he’d go out of town for business all the time.”

“Hmph.” Ben shuddered in the wind. “Please tell me Daddy Warbucks is giving us a ride home after practice today.”

“Sorry. He’s out of town—”

“For business,” they finished together, and she giggled.

Grant closed his eyes as the sound of her laugh washed over him.

The wind howled, and Ben said, “Screw this, I’m running the rest of the way.”

“But I’m wearing heels!”

“Not my problem!” he taunted over his shoulder, widening the distance between them.

Sophie shook her head then took off with her handbag and briefcase swaying at her side.

Before he realized it, Grant found himself jogging after them. When Ben turned around, probably to taunt Sophie some more, Grant ducked into a store to avoid blowing his cover.

“Can I help you, sir? Something for the lady in your life?”

As he peeled off his hat, he looked at the store employee—a plump woman in her fifties with a saucy smile. A quick perusal of the store displays told him he’d ventured into a lingerie shop.

“Uhh…”

An hour later he pushed through the revolving hotel door and hustled toward Mr. Remington’s office.

“Oh goody, you bought me a present!” came a voice from behind the front desk.

Shit.
He turned to find the redheaded receptionist’s eyes widen as her tongue swept across her lower lip. Ignoring the guest approaching the counter, she eyed the hot-pink bag in his hand. “Did you get me some lingerie?”

He hid the bag behind his back. “Well…” He practically jumped when the tall hotel guest swiveled around. The man’s high forehead looked familiar…Where had he seen him before?

The man evidently recognized him too. He smirked.

Hunter!
That was Hunter’s partner, a surgeon. What the heck was his name?

His knowing eyes met Grant’s. “Good to see you again, Gr—”

“Mick Saylor,” Grant butted in, offering him an outstretched gloved hand. “How are you, Doctor?”

The man was clearly confused.

Curiosity coated the redhead’s voice. “You know Mick, Dr. Washington?”

In the moment it took for Dr. Washington to regain his composure, his first name—
Bradley
—suddenly came to Grant.

“Well, yes…yes I do.”

“Are you staying at the hotel?” Grant asked.

“No, I’m picking up a colleague.”

He squirmed as he felt the surgeon’s gaze float down his body.

Still staring, Bradley explained, “We’re headed back to a plastic surgery conference at McCormick Place.”

“Isn’t that awesome he does plastic surgery?” the redhead asked Grant. When he said nothing, her face lit up. “Oh! I bet
that’s
how you two know each other. You must’ve been Dr. Washington’s patient, right?”

He stared at her, speechless.

She turned back to Bradley. “You did a wonderful job on him. He’s so handsome, I can’t believe it.”

Bradley chuckled. “Now, now…” He glanced at her nametag. “Miranda, you know I can’t divulge the identity of my patients. That’s a secret.”

And Grant hoped he was good at keeping secrets.

“Patient-doctor confidentiality,” Bradley added, winking at him. “You know all about that, right, uh, Mick?”

“Yes, sir.” He wished he could get the hell out of there, stat.

Miranda sighed. “Isn’t Mick so polite?”

Bradley sighed as well before his grin widened. “Unfailingly so. Miranda, it appears you have a bit of a crush on Mick.”

“You think?” she said. Her fair complexion didn’t redden at all upon the admission.

“Is he single, do you think?” Bradley asked.

Grant’s eyes narrowed. Bradley damn well knew about Sophie—he’d met her at that Brazilian steakhouse!

“That’s what
I
want to know,” Miranda cooed, leaning forward on the counter so her cleavage formed a perfect crease.

“Dr. Washington,” Grant finally said, “was Miranda about to call your colleague on the house phone? I wouldn’t want to delay you getting to the conference.”

Bradley glanced down at his watch. “You’re right—it’s getting late. Miranda, could you ring Dr. Peterson?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Miranda’s face was disappointed as she turned to the phone.

Once she was busy, he mouthed a silent thank you.

“Does Hunt know about all of this,
Mick?”
Bradley whispered.

He nodded and gestured behind him. “I sing most nights in the hotel bar, Capone’s Spirits.”

“Ah. Should we stop by one night?”

Feeling Miranda’s stare on him again, he gave a slight shake of his head. “Maybe you should ask Dr. Hayes. Great to run into you, sir.”

Bradley reached out to pump his hand. “Always good to see you, Mick. Go out there tonight and…break a leg. But don’t let anything happen to that perfect face.”

He chuckled nervously. “Will do.” Only when Bradley turned the corner did Grant feel relief. This undercover thing was getting old fast. So was unwanted attention.

Opening the outer door, he popped his head into the office. “Just wanted Mr. Remington to know I’m here.”

“He’d like to see you,” said Sarah.

He pulled the rest of his body inside. Was Agent Bounter here to discuss tomorrow night’s plans? Had the drug deal gone south?

“You can go on in,” she told him.

He knocked on Mr. Remington’s door and heard, “Come in.” He quietly took a seat when he saw that he was on the phone.

“I have to run, now,” he told the caller. “Make sure you stay focused on your job. I want the governor to receive top-notch service.”

“Is Governor Grogan staying at the hotel, sir?” he asked after Mr. Remington hung up.

“He’s coming in later tonight. Hopefully Miranda won’t be the one to check him in.”

Grant paled. “That was Miranda on the phone?”

“Yes.” He grinned. “She called to ask a question about you.”

He tensed.

“She wanted to know if you were single.”

“Ughhhh.” He drew his hand to his forehead.

Mr. Remington laughed. “I know Grant Madsen’s engaged, but I wasn’t sure what to tell her about Mick Saylor. Is he on the market?”

“With Miranda, I somehow think it wouldn’t matter.”

“Hopefully she’s not as aggressive with our male guests as with our male staff,” he replied. “So, I had dinner with Will the other night, and he was nervous that the wedding plans are behind schedule. How’re things coming along?”

Grant winced. Planning the wedding was one conversation of many he and Sophie needed to have. But every time he picked up the secure cell phone or contemplated spending the night with her, he worried about bringing her into his world of crime.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those grooms who leaves it all up to the bride.” Mr. Remington’s voice was stern. “My sales manager tells me our wedding receptions go much better if the man gets his say. Last Saturday the groom’s buddies were complaining that we only served two varieties of beer.”

“The horror,” he said, earning a smile from his boss. “To be honest, I haven’t seen Sophie much lately. We’ve got a deal going down with the Russians tomorrow—”

“Bounter told me you need tomorrow night off.”

“Yes, sir.” He felt his heart gallop. “Will that be a problem?”

When Mr. Remington smoothed his hand down his dark blue tie, Grant wondered how much his suit cost. “Of course not. The FBI is your first priority…though Miranda might be upset she won’t get to watch you perform on her breaks.”

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and groaned.

“How’ve you been sleeping, Mick?”

His eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up straighter. Then he sighed. “Not great.”

“Bounter said you’re under a lot of stress.”

“I’m fine.” Grant thought about Innochka cowering on that dirty mattress. “I’ll be okay.”

“I’ll make sure of that.” Mr. Remington gave him a mysterious smile. “Let’s go talk to Tomacz, my driver.”

***

From behind the tinted window, Grant watched Sophie and Ben leave the natatorium, chatting animatedly in their winter coats and hats. “Target acquired,” he told the driver.

Tomacz nodded from the front seat of the limo. “Want me to cut them off at the corner?” he asked in his heavy Polish accent.

“Let’s pick them up, but approach slowly. I don’t want to alarm Sophie.” He noticed her glancing over her shoulder, probably looking for a taxi. They’d likely have to walk a couple of blocks to find one.

As the limo inched forward, closing in on the two pedestrians, Grant saw a cloud of Sophie’s breath crystallize in the icy air when she laughed at something Ben said. She gave Ben a playful shove, then wrapped her arm around his shoulders when he boomeranged back to her. She seemed so relaxed and confident, sauntering along in her high-heel boots.
God, I’ve missed her
.

He lowered the window and frosty air rushed in the limo. “Got some fries with that shake?”

She spun toward the vehicle with her mouth hanging open, and Ben almost shouted his name. Grant drew his finger to his lips, silencing the boy, then beckoned them both into the long, sleek black car.

He scooted over as Ben clambered onto the smooth leather seats, his growing teenage body all elbows and knees. Then Sophie stepped in behind him with her usual grace, smoothing her camel coat under her legs. Her cheeks glowed with a rosy blush beneath her stylish leopard-print hat. “Where in the
world
did you get this limo?”

He smirked. “Perks of the job.” Calling up to the driver, he said, “Tommy, can you drop off Ben first?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Saylor.” The divider between the front seat and the rear of the vehicle quickly slid into place.

“Sweet wheels,” Ben marveled. “Smells good in here too.”