The Spy Who Loves Me (4 page)

She was going out.

Interesting.
Because while Finn might need to work, Agent Python had a patriotic duty to follow her.

And, really, who was he to argue with patriotism?

 

“They're on the move,” Brandon said. He pulled back from the window and turned to face Amber. Dressed head to toe in black leather, she looked like a cross between Lara Croft and Emma Peel. The only thing marring the kick-ass persona was the paperback novel she held in her lap and the scraggly black cat curled up beside her. And, frankly, neither one marred the image much.

Yesterday, he'd suggested sleeping together in jest, but he had to admit the idea had a certain appeal. Amber would be anything but boring in bed. He wasn't, however, inclined to mess up a perfectly good friendship by bringing sex into it.

“Let's roll,” she said, giving the cat one final pet as she tossed the book on the floor. “I've got Finn covered. You take Traynor.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Of course, I only intend to observe my prey. But you…” He trailed off with a grin. “Do you think we need to devise a code? If you tie a red handkerchief to your doorknob, I'll know you're
entertaining.”

She aimed her eyes heavenward and gave a little shake of the head. “Why?” she asked. “Why couldn't I do this job with someone who isn't an asshole?”

“The last woman I had to seduce for a job smelled like wet leather and had the personality of a pit bull,” Brandon said. “Some people have all the luck.”

She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Clean living,” she said. She tossed her hair, and he watched her head toward the door, the leather pants managing to destroy any illusion of innocence.

“Maybe I'll try that someday,” he said, following. He wouldn't, of course. Clean living was boring. And right now, his life was just too damn interesting.

 

What the hell was he doing?
The thought spun round and round in Finn's mind, so persistent that he almost pulled over to the side of the road. After all, the question was a good one—what the hell
was
he doing?

Not working, that was for sure. Already past noon on Sunday and so far he'd eaten breakfast, screwed around, and prevented two kids from blowing up the courtyard. All in all, not a bad way to pass a Sunday morning…unless you had an eight
A.M.
meeting with the senior partner to go over the stack of still-unfinished interrogatories on your kitchen table. The very same partner who signed his paychecks.

The same paychecks Finn needed to pay off his staggering student loans.

So you'd think he'd be a little more into the whole work thing.

He wasn't.

Instead, he was cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard in his primer-paint-gray Mustang convertible tailing a blonde who probably wouldn't be caught dead with a guy who drove anything less exciting than a Lamborghini.

Of course, she didn't know about all the hidden little extras that had been installed in his classic car. The '67 Mustang might look like a heap, but it was loaded. Missile launch behind the headlights complete with a state-of-the-art targeting system. A buoyancy control device and rudder system in case a land chase veered onto the sea. Oh, yeah. He was set. Sometimes looks could be very, very deceiving.

The car was an integral part of his work. It allowed him to get close. To move in unobserved. To fade into the background. Which made it very useful for a mission like the one he was on today—trailing S.C.U.M. ubër-agent Tatiana Nicasse.

Of course, Tatiana's tastes tended more toward elegance, and he knew he wouldn't impress her in his junk-heap-looking car. But that wasn't a problem. The agency provided everything he needed, including a fabulous Type-E Jaguar—a two-seater, with a hood as long as Tatiana's legs. Once he was done observing, he'd dry-clean his tux, rev up the Jaguar, and move in. Close. Very close…

Finn ran his hand over the steering wheel, imagining the smooth skin of her thigh under his touch, his gaze locked on the taillights of her red Dodge Viper. She was half a block ahead of him and moving fast, while he was stuck at a light behind a brand-new Lexus and a battered Honda Accord.

The light changed to green, and he laid on the horn, but the noise didn't inspire any forward motion in the two cars blocking his path. After a seemingly interminable pause, they finally pulled forward, and he took advantage of the gap to whip around them into the left-hand lane. He ran through the gears, shifting like a maniac, until he was cruising along at a nice clip, his eyes scanning the road for any hint of the Viper.

There.
About three blocks ahead, zipping dangerously between a couple of fast-moving SUV's. Traffic was piling up fast, but that wasn't any obstacle to the Python. He whipped around a station wagon, waving an apology when the old man raised a fist in what was probably a colorful curse.

More cars blocked his path, and he glanced to his right, eyeing Little Santa Monica wistfully. The smaller street ran parallel to the main thoroughfare, and if he was over there—just a few yards to the right—he'd have smooth sailing. Heck, from his current vantage point he could even see a black Buick LeSabre cruising down that wide-open street. That's the kind of car Finn needed. A blend-into-the-background kind of car. Perfect for undertaking a little espionage on the lunch hour.

He squinted at the Buick, watching as the driver hit each light perfectly, his good fortune speeding him toward Tatiana and away from Finn.
Probably a lover heading for a secret rendezvous. Or a counter-agent out to get the jump on Python.

Or not.

He rolled his eyes at himself, realizing that his imagination had once again got the better of him. He was just about to hit the brakes, turn around, and hightail it away from such foolishness when he saw the Viper just two cars ahead. She'd gotten hung up behind a bus.

There was no way he could lose her now.

Determined, he zipped up close in the parallel lane. When traffic started moving again, he darted over, ending up right behind her. He laughed, almost giddy from the success, even though he knew that was stupid. After all, he wasn't on a real mission, and she wasn't out to avoid him. He was just a guy wasting time on a Sunday. But what the hell? This was the most fun he'd had in months.

They were moving now, and her brake lights flashed briefly as they approached an intersection. He didn't have any reason to think she knew he was back there, but still he slowed, planning to pull back a bit and follow at more of a distance. No sense getting caught. Especially since he didn't have a sane-sounding reason for tailing her in the first place.

Just then, the light changed to yellow, and she slammed on the brakes instead of gunning it through the light. The action caught Finn by surprise, and he had to react quickly, hitting his own brakes to keep from hitting her. Tires squealed and the scent of rubber burning against asphalt assaulted him.

In front of him, she adjusted her rearview mirror, then reapplied her lipstick. Then she twisted around in her seat, looked him straight in the eye, and blew him a kiss.

Finn just sat there clutching the steering wheel, his stomach knotting as he told himself that couldn't possibly be right. He turned to look at the cars in the two lanes sandwiching him. Both women. He checked his rearview mirror. Also a woman.

Tatiana had blown
him
a kiss?

Surely not. Surely he was mistaken. His eyes playing tricks or something.

He was still trying to convince himself that he was hallucinating when his cell phone rang. He picked it up, expecting to hear his boss's booming voice.

“Do you like what you see, Mr. Teague?” The feminine voice seemed to ooze over him like warm honey, but not in a good way. Instead it seemed sticky. Like a trap. Like she was the spider and he was the fly.

Busted.

Somehow, she'd gotten his cell phone number. How? He didn't know, but that little mystery was nothing compared to the tidal wave of complete and utter mortification that washed over him, its power so strong it almost knocked him over. Never once had his imagination crossed over into the real world, so why did it have to start with this woman?

The light was still red, but she hit the accelerator, racing through the intersection and barely missing a black BMW. The driver slammed on his brakes and cursed, then shook a fist at Tatiana. But she was gone, a red dot disappearing into the afternoon traffic. Well, damn.

He half-considered racing through the light after her, if for no other reason than to apologize and explain. But no explanation would sound sane, so he nixed that idea. In truth, he didn't mind losing her. After all, he didn't even know her.

She'd sparked his imagination, all right, but he knew she wasn't really smuggling microfiche in her cosmetic case or bringing down double agents with poisoned lipstick kisses. That was just a fantasy.

Now, though, she'd crossed from fantasy into reality. And he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. And while Tatiana disappeared into a distant red dot, Finn downshifted, made a tight—and illegal—U-turn, and headed away from Beverly Hills. If he was lucky, a tidal wave was brewing off the California coast.

That, at least, would get his mind off his troubles.

 

“She made him,” Amber reported, the incredulity in her voice echoing back through the tiny earpiece. What kind of a spy-guy couldn't even manage a simple tail on Diana Traynor's oh-so-obvious blood red car?

A guy who's not a spy at all.

All the evidence suggested that Finn really was just your average guy. The thought depressed her more than it should. After all, what did she care who Finn was? He was just a subject, and she was just doing her job. And that job involved peeking behind the curtain of Phineus Teague's life to see the wizard behind. If he turned out to be an uninvolved civilian, she could wash her hands of him. And if it turned out he was in the game…well, she'd deal with that development later.

Grimacing, she revved the BMW bike, leaning sideways into a tight turn as she spun around to follow Finn. Loose asphalt kicked up in her wake, punctuating her mood. “I can't believe it. She practically stepped out of her car and gave him a big sloppy kiss.”

“No sweat.” Brandon's voice came back without even a hint of static. “Chances are she won't even consider the possibility that she still has a tail. But what Harriet doesn't know is that I've got her in my sights.”

Amber grinned. She'd come up with the code name of Harriet for Diana after one of her favorite children's books,
Harriet the Spy.
“She's all yours,” Amber said. “I'm going to catch up with our boy.”

“Roger that.”

Satisfied that Brandon would keep up the tail on Diana, Amber turned back to the business at hand, following Finn as he headed back toward the beach. The wind whipped around her as she leaned over the handlebars, her black helmet and outfit all the disguise she needed. The bike vibrated beneath her, the purr of the engine working on her like some sort of erotic caress.

The truth was, she was wired tight and hadn't had sex for months. Before she'd left for Chechnya, she'd burned off some nervous energy by hanging out at a funky Irish pub on Wilshire and going home with the lead singer from the band that played there Wednesday nights.

But that had just been a quick roll, nothing earth shattering, and certainly nothing to sustain her through the long months on assignment. Now that she was back, the thought of simple sex—wild and hot and satisfying—was undeniably appealing. Unfortunately, she was fresh out of lead singers, bass players, or any of the usual suspects. And while she'd toyed with the idea of taking Brandon up on his offer, she knew better. Sex was a tool, and no matter what, it inevitably changed things.

No, Brandon was out of the question. Which meant she'd simply just have to find some other man.

And, lucky for her, Phineus Teague was up at bat.

A day spa? Brandon blinked and took another look at the sign. Beverly Glen Spa. No doubt about it. He'd just spent half an hour tailing a woman who'd been racing through Los Angeles on her way to get a facial peel.