The Spy Who Loves Me (5 page)

Talk about a waste of time.

“Rebecca, do you copy?” He spoke normally, knowing the microphone in the dental cap he'd put on before leaving Amber's apartment would adjust to the appropriate volume. No answer. Not even a hint of static in his earpiece. “Rebecca, come in, Rebecca,” he said, trying again.

She'd picked the handle herself, something about Ken Follett and a cipher and spies and some book she'd read years ago. Brandon's handle was Han. He rarely had time for books, but he'd seen
Star Wars
and felt a kinship with the smuggler.

Still no answer. She'd either tailed Finn out of range or the hills were blocking the signal.

Frustrated, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Diana's destination had strengthened his suspicions that he and Amber were on a wild goose chase, and he was tempted to turn around and head back toward the beach.

From what Amber had told him about Diana's habits over the last few days, their target's primary occupation in Los Angeles seemed to involve the application and reapplication of makeup. Not exactly incriminating, or even interesting. And, frankly, the situation pissed him off. Amber was one of the Unit's best agents, and Schnell damn well knew it. So the thought of her wasting her time learning nothing more scintillating than a few new makeup tricks was more than Brandon could stomach.

And now Brandon was in the mix, too. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, the action doing little to quell his irritation. But he owed everything to the Unit, so if Schnell thought monitoring Traynor was useful, then by God, that's what he'd do.

For that matter, he'd never once seen Schnell do anything without a purpose. And so he held fast to his faith, silently praying that they weren't chasing a decoy while Mackenzie went off and did something heinous like blow up Disneyland.

That would be very bad indeed.

He released a bitter sigh, contemplating his next move. He needed to get inside. She might be going in for Botox injections and a mineral bath, but she could also be planning an information drop. He needed to find out, and he needed to do it without Diana noticing him.

He frowned, considering the problem. At the moment, he was idling two cars behind her Viper in the valet zone, watching the view as her well-defined leg slipped out of the tight bucket seat. The entire woman followed, her short skirt and summer sweater clinging like a wet T-shirt.

She took the ticket from the valet, then bent back down to retrieve her purse from inside the car. The skirt pulled tight against her ass, and Brandon noticed the valet ogling her with appreciation. Brandon understood completely and even allowed himself a tiny smile. The woman might be boffing a terrorist, but she was still one hell of a looker.

For her part, Diana didn't notice the valet any more than she noticed the Cypress trees that lined the walk to the spa's front door. To her, the uniformed employee was simply part of the scenery, there for her convenience, but certainly no one she needed to pay attention to.

Pampered rich girls and their holier-than-thou ways rubbed Brandon the wrong way. But this time, her elitism had sparked a plan. And if everything went as he expected, her attitude just might be her downfall.

P
asadena.

Amber scowled at the tree-lined streets and perfectly manicured lawns to which Finn had led her. Swing sets and families and paper routes. Everyone going about their daily lives, never scratching beneath the surface. Amber had spent her childhood in a similar neighborhood, but she'd gotten her fingernails dirty. As a kid, she'd clawed down to the muck underneath, and it had sucked her in and never let her go.

She might have started life in a Pasadena-like place, but she could never go back. Her mistakes and then her work had changed her. Normally, that didn't bother her. Her life was her life. She loved it, and she didn't believe in having regrets. But every once in a while that other life snuck up, like something in her peripheral vision.

When James had stepped into her room at the tri-county juvenile detention center, he'd saved her life. Amber knew that. But still she wondered….

If James hadn't come along, would she have eventually saved herself? And if she had, would this have been her destiny? Gladiolas and neighbors and children playing kickball on the lawn?

Her nose wrinkled in distaste, and the thought didn't linger. She'd never been big on what-ifs.

The motorcycle purred beneath her as she maneuvered the streets, keeping a decent distance from Finn in case he got curious about the black-clad biker who'd been on his tail all morning. But he seemed oblivious, which both heartened and pissed her off. In her line of work, agents who were oblivious tended to end up dead. Which meant Finn probably wasn't an agent. Or, if he was, he was a downright bad one.

At the end of the block, Finn turned into the driveway of a familiar house hosting a huge yard sale. Amber watched with a smile, realizing she'd correctly guessed his destination. Back when she'd first encountered Finn, he'd been searching for Albert Alcott with the help of a local P.I. who lived on this very street. As soon as Finn had turned away from the beach and headed up the freeway toward Pasadena, Amber had guessed that he was going to visit his buddy. Turned out she was right, and she gave herself a couple of Brownie points.

She slowed to a stop, idling across the street from a lawn party, complete with a smoking grill and a piñata for the kids. A dozen pairs of eyes regarded her with curiosity, and Amber grimaced with sudden realization—she was in the heart of suburbia, and she didn't have a thing to wear. Black leather simply wasn't the fashion statement she wanted to make.

“Han,” she said. “Do you read me?” No answer. Probably out of range. Which meant that her plan to have Brandon deliver her something fun and flirty and sure to catch Finn's attention was out the window. Unless…

She shifted into gear and headed forward, finding a nice, normal-looking station wagon to park behind. She killed the engine, then bent over and pulled her helmet off, welcoming the cool rush of air as her hair tumbled loose. She lowered the kick-stand, tossed her leg over the bike, and dismounted. Then she twisted the latch and lifted the seat to reveal the storage compartment underneath.
Thank you, Linus.

The compartment was bigger than it looked from the outside, and it was filled with a variety of clear vacuum-packed bags, each with a purple label bearing a photo of the enclosed clothing item, along with the bisected compass logo that identified Unit 7 property.

Despite the fact that Linus Klondike had been with the Unit since the Paleolithic Age, he'd managed to pull together several fashionable and versatile male and female wardrobes. One bag contained what appeared from the photo to be a full-length evening dress complete with a sequined bodice. Another held a cute little silk outfit with walking shorts, a blouse, a jacket, and matching sandals. Not bad. Amber pulled that one out and continued to rummage.

At the very bottom, behind a black unitard accessorized with a red scarf, she found the perfect Sexy Girl Next-Door outfit. Ignoring the passing cars and other signs of neighborhood life, she went to work behind the station wagon. Less than two minutes later she was completely transformed. A blue and white sweater hugged her chest, the V-style neckline showing sufficient cleavage aided by a handy little bra that lifted and smooshed. Her midriff was bare, the ankle-length blue pants hugging her hips and staying in place with a two-inch wide belt that looked like something out of the Mod Squad but was, she knew, back in fashion. A tiny purse and low-heeled sandals completed the outfit.

She took one last look around to confirm that no one had noticed her little costume change, and then rolled up her leather outfit and locked it in the seat compartment. Her gun was too big for the tiny handbag, so she locked that up, too. Her Montblanc pen, she kept, moving it from the inside pocket of her leather jacket to the purse. The thing was simply too handy to leave behind.

Finally ready, she stood up straight, tossed her shoulders back…and headed off to catch herself a man.

 

Finn sat in his car until the last strains of Paul Simon's “Kodachrome” died out and the DJ finished his spiel about the song. Finn told himself that he was simply enjoying a favorite tune, but that was a load of bull. Instead, he was putting off the inevitable confession to his best friend that he'd behaved like a complete and utter ass.

“You Light Up My Life” started up next, a song that grated on Finn's nerves. He took that as a sign to get out of the car. The yard sale was going strong, clusters of people milling about, inspecting each and every item as if it might be fodder for the next episode of
Antiques Roadshow.

Finn scanned the small crowd, locating Jacey and Millie on the wraparound porch. Someone had lugged a television outside, and Finn could see that the women were engrossed. Neither of the women noticed him, but he caught a line from the movie they were watching—
I'm too old for this shit.
Finn smiled. He should have known they'd be watching
Lethal Weapon.

He crossed the lawn, cutting catty-corner in front of the house from the driveway to the area where David had set up the yard sale. As Finn approached, David was making change for a tall woman in an oversized flannel shirt who'd filled a basket with an odd assortment of coffee cups, empty Danish cookie tins, and rag dolls. As the woman left, apparently thrilled with her haul, David turned, his face breaking into a wide grin the second he saw Finn.

“Finn, buddy. Long time no see. Put on your sales cap and give me a hand with some customers.”

Finn raised an eyebrow. “I haven't been over here in two months, and all you can do is pass out work assignments? How come I get roped in and your wife is relaxing on the porch?”

David laughed. “One word—Millie.” He nodded toward the porch. “She said Jacey needed to get off her feet, and then she dragged my wife to the porch.” He shrugged, a
what can you do
gesture, but Finn could tell David didn't really mind. For that matter, he was grinning from ear to ear.

“What am I missing?” Finn asked, his suspicion piqued.

“Not a thing,” David said, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I just need help making change.” He nodded toward the porch. “My wife's lost in a sea of Mel Gibson. It's scary the way she and Millie have bonded.”

Finn laughed. David's Aunt Millie was, as she liked to say, on the youthful side of ninety. But her mind was still sharp and, if her fascination with Mel Gibson was any indication, her libido wasn't in bad shape either.

“I'll help,” Finn said, “but I came for food.”

David cocked his head, regarding Finn carefully. “Female troubles.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Something like that,” Finn admitted.

“Maybe you should follow Millie's advice and just get married,” David said. “I hate to admit it, but she was right about me.”

Finn laughed. “Yeah, but you already married Jacey. All the good ones are taken.”

“True,” David said solemnly. “I guess you're screwed.”

Finn rolled his eyes, his mood already lifting. Maybe he'd made a huge ass out of himself where Tatiana was concerned, but even if he had, so what? He'd made a huge ass out of himself before, and the odds were good he'd do it again, too.

David glanced at his watch, then scanned the yard. Finn followed his friend's gaze, counting six people still dotting the makeshift sales floor. The two old men he'd seen as he drove up were arguing over a bin of vinyl LPs. David's next-door neighbor's son was taking a long, hard look at the skateboard that had been Finn's doom so many years ago. Two teenage girls squatted in front of a box of old magazines, flipping the pages and giggling like fiends. And a brunette Finn hadn't seen earlier was standing under the oak tree, her back to Finn, as her finger traced down the side of David's ten-year-old snow skis.

“How long are you keeping the store open?” he asked.

“The signs say five, but I'll break it down before then if all the stuff is sold.” David grinned. “Don't worry. Right now I just need you to help make change. Manual labor won't be involved for at least a few more hours.”

“Well, then I'm your man,” he said. “I can't believe you're selling the skateboard,” he said. His eyes drifted toward the brunette. “Or the skis.”

“The skateboard should have gone long ago, although you're welcome to it if you want it for sentimental reasons.”

Finn faked a shudder. “My collarbone would never forgive me,” he said. “The skis, though, I might take you up on. Put on some new bindings, and they'll be good as new.”

“Take them,” David said. “And anything else you want.”

“Thanks. I might just take—” He broke off, squinting at something familiar laid out on the middle of the card table. “Is that the watch I bought you last Christmas?”

David had the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry,” he said. “I should have asked if you wanted it back. But the band's broken, and I don't exactly have a need for a watch with a global positioning system.”

Finn just stared at him. “Are you kidding? Who knows when something like that might come in handy?”

“In one of
your
fantasies, maybe.”

Finn grunted in response, then pocketed the watch. He wasn't really ticked off—it
had
been a stupid gift for David. But when Casio had first come out with the affordable watch, Finn had wanted one for himself, but he couldn't really justify the purchase. And so he'd lived vicariously through his buddy's Christmas present. “The next time you're stranded in the desert, you're going to wish you had this thing, you know.”

“I'll take my chances,” David deadpanned.

One of the teenage girls rushed over to David, waving a stack of ancient
Mad
magazines. While David haggled over price, Finn glanced toward the tree. The woman had switched her attention to a pair of ski boots at the base, her back still toward him. The skis, red Rossignols, leaned against the tree, their waxy sheen shimmering in the late-afternoon sun.

He studied the woman—her rich brown hair, the curve of her ass—as he slid into fantasy. Agent Python knew her, of course.
Angelique Roquefort.
Tatiana's nemesis. She must be trying to intercept the information, just as Agent Python was doing. And while he and Angelique weren't technically allies, where Tatiana was concerned, they both realized the utility of cozying up to your enemy.

The fantasy was just getting good when David laughed, the sound pulling Finn out of his reverie. “You're as bad as I am,” David said. A writer, David had the habit of slipping into his scenes at the oddest of moments.

“I'm worse,” Finn said, then told David about his run-in with Tatiana.

To David's credit, he only laughed hysterically for a minute or two. “Well, I would say you should just ask her out. But chances are she thinks you're a nutcase and would run for the hills.” His grin spread wide. “Either that, or she'd say yes, and I'm not sure what that would say about her.”