On Best Behavior (C3) (26 page)

Grinning, he reached out to shake his hand. The other agent offered a hearty handshake as well before they left the apartment.

With only the TV as his companion—some political news show berating Governor Grogan for his plan to reduce pension payouts for state employees—he scanned the empty apartment and shivered. He looked down to find his torso bare.

In his closet, he tugged the first shirt he saw off the hanger. It was a pale-blue button-down from Nordstrom’s Sophie had given him for Christmas, thanks to her father’s largesse. The shirt probably cost more than most of his wardrobe, and the crisp collar hid his button mic well. He stuffed his feet into black leather shoes, grabbed both phones, and snatched his coat from the front closet.
Crap
—he couldn’t go far because he had to return the secure phone to his apartment, and he still had to shave. Rubbing his hand on his chest, he smiled as he decided the location for his call to Agent Bounter.

A quick glance out his front door revealed an empty hallway. He slipped into the stairwell and leaped two steps at a time to reach Kirsten’s apartment.

Pressing his ear to the door, he heard nothing. As soon as he’d unlocked it and entered, though, he could hear the patter of the shower. He hoped it wasn’t Kirsten.

Then he heard singing. He stepped closer to the bathroom, trying to figure out what song was being butchered. Was that Madonna? It was definitely Sophie. When she punctuated the lyrics with a high-pitched “Oooh!” he had to cover his mouth to prevent bursting out in laughter. Lord, her singing was awful. She was almost as bad as Rog.

But when the shower shut off, he found himself sad she’d also stopped channeling Madonna. There was something so endearing about her singing. “Soph? It’s Grant. Gotta make a call up here.”

She yanked open the bathroom door. “You didn’t hear me sing, did you?”

“
What?”
He tilted his head, striving to keep a straight face.

Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she scowled. “Peeping Mick. I’m taking away your key. I thought I was alone!”

Droplets of water sliding down one shoulder distracted him. “Um, sorry ’bout that, Madonna.”

“So you
did
hear me sing!”

“Singing isn’t quite what I’d call it.” A grin broke out, appearing to enrage her further. “I’d advise you not to quit your day job.”

“Ooooh! Why the hell can’t you call from your apartment?”

His smile vanished. “The Russians planted a bug in the bathroom. Sophie, you have to promise me you won’t go down there.”

“They were
here?
In the building?” She clutched her towel more tightly to her chest.

“It’s okay now. But I gotta call Bounter to check in. Everything’s copacetic—just need to touch base. All right?”

She blinked at him for a long moment. “I
guess
.” A few more trickles of water cascaded down her chest, and she turned toward the mirror. She opened her towel and tilted forward to wrap her hair in white terrycloth. Catching a glimpse of her milky skin, he leaned over to peer around the partly open door.

“I thought you had to make a phone call, Mr. Professional Singer,” she said when she noticed him ogling. With that she closed the door in his face.

“Wow.” He pulled out his secure phone and sat on the couch.

Bounter answered with a laugh. “I’m not thrilled you went up to Sophie’s, but
damn
that was funny.”

“So you overheard Sophie murder that song?”

“With an ax. Girlfriend’s tone deaf.”

“Hey!” Sophie huffed as she flew out of the bathroom. “He heard me sing too?”

She was naked except for the towel-turban wrapped around her head like a vanilla soft-serve cone. Grant eyed her perky breasts before his gaze flew south. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Better get a good look, pal, ’cause this—” her hands sashayed down her body, then rested on her hips “—you won’t see for a loooong time.”

He could see from the glint in her eyes she was joking—
thank God
. “Don’t you own a robe?”

Her head tilted an inch. “Do you
want
me to wear one?”

“Definitely not.”

“I’m still hot from working out,” she said. “I don’t need a robe.”

“You
are
hot. You worked out?”

“At the gym downstairs.”

“That’s awesome. I haven’t run in a week.”

Her gaze floated down his body. “You still look quite fit, McSailor.”

“
Do I need to be here for this?”
Bounter barked. “Eavesdropping on phone sex is plain wrong. Very wrong. And I want out.”

“Oh, sorry.” He winced, looking at Sophie. “Right, sir. She’s just a bit distracting.”

She laughed as she glided back to the bathroom.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“The good news is we don’t need Sophie.”

Grant let out a breath. “Good.” He paused. “And the bad news?”

“We have to make another woman credible as your girlfriend. So you need to get to the hotel to start rehearsing.”

“Who
is
this girl? Do I know her?”

“I briefed Mr. Remington about what’s going down tonight, and he gave me a perfect idea. But I don’t want to say more over the phone.”

“Sir! You can’t leave me hanging. I have to know who she is—”

Naked Sophie strutted in the room, stopping him midstream. She’d jettisoned the towel, and her wet hair curled across her shoulders. When she shook out her hair, thick strands fell to her chest, barely skimming her nipples.

He became aware of Bounter’s voice on the phone. “Mick? You still there?”

“Uhh…”

She smiled at him as she crawled over the arm of the sofa, approaching him with a flash of hunger in her eyes. Her hands darted up to his collar, and he felt the shirt tighten against the back of his neck as she drew him closer.

“Hey, we’re getting static on the mic,” Bounter said.

Grant couldn’t care less. For once Sophie didn’t seem stressed out by his work with the FBI, and he was going to go with it! She’d applied body lotion in the bathroom, and its intoxicating floral scent made his jeans bulge.

She purred, “I
knew
this shirt would look good on you.”

“Oh
Christ
,” Bounter muttered. “Is she about to do you?”

“I sure hope so.” He smiled as she pushed him backward. Now he stared at the ceiling, his back resting on the sofa. He tried to remember he was still on the phone.

Her flushed face came into view, hovering over him as she unbuttoned his shirt. Still holding the phone to his ear, his free hand reached up to fondle her breast, marveling at the juxtaposition of soft tissue and hard nipple cupped in his palm.

Bounter gave a disgusted sigh. “Mick, get your ass to the hotel.”

“You know, this is kind of your fault for keeping us apart so long,” he fired back.

Sophie seized the phone. “Agent Bounter, unless you enjoy participating in
ménage a trois
, I suggest you hang up now.” She giggled and tossed the phone to the floor.

“Good job getting rid of him,” he said, enjoying her new attitude and the freedom to massage her breasts with both hands.

Her deep moan vibrated against his abdomen as she planted wet kisses along his sternum.

“So my singing’s not so great.” She gazed down at him. “But there’re
many
things I’m good at.”

“Amen, Bonnie.” Her roving lips found his for a sensuous kiss, and his hand skated down to cradle her fine backside.

Thoughts about tonight still preoccupied him, but when she reached into his pants, all worries about a fake girlfriend vanished. He was with his
real
girlfriend—his
fiancée
—right now, and he savored every second.

***

“Hey, Kir.” Handing her friend a latte, Sophie sank into a chair in Kirsten’s office a few hours later. “Jeez…” She wiggled in the plastic chair. “These aren’t comfortable at all.”

“Try sitting in one for nine hours straight.” Kirsten leaned back in her desk chair and stretched her arms over her head.

“Not fun.” Sophie scrunched her nose. “At least you have a no-show.”

“And good coffee.” Kirsten held up her cup, then took a sip. “Thanks, roomie.”

Sophie sipped her own coffee. “Sorry they don’t have your fave flavor anymore.”

“Don’t remind me,” Kirsten groaned. “Hazelnut will do, but I still miss Valencia. I guess I’m the only one who likes orange in her coffee.”

“Hey, I liked it too.” Sophie took another drink. “Starbucks lacks your excellent taste.”

Kirsten snorted. “That’s okay, I’m used to it by now—happens all the time. My favorite scent of body lotion? Production halted because it wasn’t selling. The restaurant with the best Thai chicken eggplant in the city? Closed. Even the dating web site I joined told me my personality matched only one percent of men!”

Sophie laughed.

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“Sorry, but are you
honestly
taking stock in that bogus personality test? Isn’t that the site that matched you with a pig farmer in Kankakee?”

Kirsten almost spewed her coffee down her shirt. She lunged for a tissue and dabbed the brown dribble on her chin. Her voice trembled with laughter. “Thanks for cheering me up.”

“I mean, what do you have in common with a
pig farmer?”

“Well, I do like me some bacon. Maybe I should’ve gone out with the guy,” Kirsten said. “He could’ve stocked me up with bacon for a year.”

“You obviously missed a big opportunity.”

Kirsten sighed. “Too bad for me. But how’s our dear McSailor?”

“That’s actually the reason for the coffee.” Sophie held up her cup. “I need to vent about McNavyboy, so I’m bribing you to listen.”

“Are you kidding me? No bribe needed, I assure you.”

“But you have to listen to your clients bloviate all day long.”

“If my clients all had boyfriends as cute as Grant, I’d pay
them
to hear their stories.”

“He’s not that cute, believe me.”

“
What?”
Kirsten skirted around her desk to the plastic chair across from Sophie. “Maybe you do need my services, ’cause, girl, you are certifiable. What happened?”

Sophie rubbed her thumb over the edge of cup. “He snuck into your apartment when I was in the shower…”

Kirsten leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. “Still waiting to hear the part about him not being cute. Or hot.”

“He had to call the FBI from your place since his place is apparently bugged.”

“Whoa.” Kirsten sat back.

“Anyway, I overheard his conversation, and…” She shifted in her chair. “I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling about it. His voice got quiet, and he was being sneaky—”

“That does tend to happen when you’re working undercover.”

“Smartass.” Her grin faded. “No, not about his assignment. He was making plans for tonight, and he kept referring to some girl…I think he might be seeing another woman.”

Kirsten let out a high-pitched cackle. “You
are
crazy! Have you seen the way that man looks at you?”

“
Looked
at me. Since he’s been working with the FBI, he seems distant. He made some crack about my arm muscles, and he bought me this teddy, as if he needs me to dress up like some whore to get turned on.”

“Oh, my God. I thought you were getting back to your old self after prison—back to your old confidence—but I was obviously wrong. You sound so insecure.” She reached for a worn, thick book on her shelf. “I’ll find a diagnosis for this bizarre behavior of yours. PTSD? Depression?”

Sophie winced. “Okay, you’ve made your point, Dr. Holland—”

The ringing phone interrupted her, and Kirsten rolled her eyes. “Here.” She thrust the manual onto Sophie’s lap. “Have some fun with the big book of mental illness. That’s probably the front desk telling me my client just arrived, forty-five minutes late.”

She took the call, and Sophie looked down at the heavy book. With a sigh, she set down her coffee cup and flipped through the pages. As a therapist, she’d used this manual often, but it had been a while since she’d seen it. Toward the back of the book her hand landed on the page for paranoid personality disorder.
Repeated suspicions about partner’s fidelity…

“I know you miss being a therapist, but quit fondling my book.”