Ugley Business
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
512 Forest Lake Drive
Warner Robins
, Georgia
31093
Ugley Business
Copyright © 2007 by Kate Johnson
ISBN: 1-59998-470-9
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: June 2007
Ugley Business
Kate Johnson
To everyone at Stansted Airport, especially the crew on checkin. I miss you…but I don’t miss the hours!
The way I see it, life is made up of choices. Yes or no; black or white; this week, next week, some time, never.
Like, do I tell people on MySpace that I get up at three-thirty in the morning to do a job I hate, I live in a flat smaller than some people’s wardrobes with only a small tabby cat for company, and I haven’t had a real boyfriend since I found my high school sweetheart porking the tart from down the hall two months into my English Lit university course?
Or do I tell them that I pay half the going rate on my rent, have access to any and all government files, own a gun and am sleeping with the most gorgeous man I have ever seen in real life?
That I am, in fact, a spy?
Hot lips brushed the back of my neck. “Are you going to spend all night writing that thing,” Luke asked, “or are you going to come back to bed?”
Choices, choices.
Sometimes I wish I could make Luke my alarm clock. Would I rather be wrenched from blissful sleep by the frightened shrieking of the digital monstrosity that skulks on my bedside table, or by Luke Sharpe licking my neck?
“Wake up,” he murmured.
“I don’t want to.”
“Wake up or I won’t—” he broke off, and I didn’t get to hear the next bit because he came back with, “There’s someone at the door.”
“Don’t care.”
“Could be important.” His mouth moved lower and if I had cared before about the door, I pretty soon stopped.
“It’ll be a…a delivery or something,” I mumbled. “Postman…”
“Mmm,” Luke agreed, unable to perform a verbal manoeuvre any more complicated than that because his mouth was currently engaged in other activities. Then he lifted his head. “Sophie?”
I meant to say yes, but only managed a sort of breathy squeak.
“How many people have keys to your door?”
“What?”
“Who has a key?”
What the hell was he talking about?
“Why?”
“Because they’ve just unlocked it.”
“Oh.” Then, “
What
?”
Luke laughed at me as I shoved him away. It was my mother. I knew it. “Put some bloody clothes on,” I hissed, but it was too late. The bedroom door opened and my best friend Angel was standing there, mouth open, staring in disbelief.
I stared back, my face burning, and Luke, still laughing, flipped the covers over me and addressed Angel. “And you would be…?”
Angel blinked at him. “Shocked and impressed,” she said. “You?”
“Amused and embarrassed.” They both looked at me.
There were no words.
“So this is why you’re always late,” Angel said, shaking her head. “You want me to wait out here?” And she shut the door, retreating into the living room.
Luke fell about laughing. “God, you should have seen your face.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“Yeah, it is. Come on, Soph, she’s your best mate.”
“Exactly, and she’ll therefore be very hurt that I haven’t told her I’ve been sleeping with you for two months.”
“So don’t tell her it’s been that long.” He swung himself out of bed and I got distracted for a moment. Luke is perfection, at least until he opens his mouth. He’s all long, lean muscle, tight and toned, sinewy and sleek like a racing horse or a big cat. He wandered into the bathroom, saying as he went, “Lie, sweetheart. It’s what you do.”
I stuck my tongue out at him as he shut the door, and stumbled out of bed to grab my dressing gown and go apologise to Angel, who had never met Luke in a formal capacity (not since he stopped pretending to be Italian when he was working undercover at the airport) and who had no idea that I was anything other than a bored passenger services agent, just like her.
She was lounging on the sofa, reading my
Cosmo
, and she raised her eyebrows at me. “Wait,” she held up a hand, not taking her eyes from the page, “I’m just reading how to better my orgasm. But then you might be able to give me a few personal tips…?”
I could overhaul
Cosmo
. Sleeping with Luke had been educational, to say the least.
“Look, Angel, I’m so sorry…”
She shrugged. “You’ll be forgiven if you buy me a white chocolate mocha and tell me every single detail.”
I blinked at her, and she rolled her eyes.
“We were going to go shopping?”
I smacked myself on the head for that. “God. Of course. I forgot… Just give me ten minutes…”
Angel laughed at that, and I suppose she had a point. It often took me ten minutes just to locate my hairbrush. I’d never left the house in under half an hour in the two years we’d known each other.
“Have some coffee,” I said. “I’ll buy you the mocha when we get there.”
“With cream?”
I nodded distractedly and went back into the bedroom. Luke was pulling on a loose T-shirt that hid the gun tucked into his jeans belt.
“You’re going?”
He looked up. “Three’s a crowd. And besides, methought I heard the word ‘shopping’.”
“Methinks you heard right. I planned it weeks ago and totally forgot. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed me. “I’ll see you later?”
“I’ll give you a call.”
And then he was gone, the door slamming shut in the breeze, and Angel was sighing with delight.
“My God, Soph,” she said, “I’m bloody jealous of you.”
“Mmm,” I said. Sometimes I was even jealous of myself.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Not long,” I said as casually as I could. “It’s all kind of sudden.” I looked up at the clock. “Speaking of sudden…”
“I think we said we’d pick Evie up at ten,” Angel said, following my gaze to the clock. “T minus two minutes.”
“Shit.” I threw her my mobile. “Send her a text that we’re—I’m—running late.”
She looked over the sleek Nokia. “New phone?”
Bollocks, bollocks. That was my work phone. “I’m, er, switching over,” I lied, tossing her my old Siemens. “I’ll be really quick.”
Actually, I was impressed with myself. I flew in and out of the shower, wrapped myself in a strappy top and pedal pushers, added shoes and threw my makeup into my bag, and we were off. Sophie Green, gal on the go.
We took Angel’s car—she has a Mini Cooper S that goes very fast. I have a Land Rover Defender called Ted, who is bile green and who I adore unconditionally, but who only goes up to eighty-five miles an hour.
Come to think of it, I guess that says something about us. Angel is cute and tiny and reminiscent of a Sixties classic. Her mother was the ubiquitously famous, glamorous, unforgettable, original sex symbol and gay icon, IC Winter. Angel looks just like her but in miniature—same golden curls, perfect curves, flawless skin that tans at the mention of sunshine, huge blue eyes and curvy little mouth. She also lives up to her name. She is a complete darling.
I, like Ted, operate on a rather larger chassis, come from solid, unpretentious stock, look like a lick of paint would do me some good and never fail to save the day. Well, actually, I’ve only ever saved the day once, but the day had only been in danger once while I’ve been around to save it. So to speak. But what I mean is that I somehow lack the glamour Angel wakes up with every morning. She never has fat days and can quite happily leave the house without a smudge of makeup. Not so me.
But I do have something she doesn’t—Luke—and she never stopped asking me about him. But you see, the thing is, I can’t tell her anything. Luke is a secret agent. He’s the one who hired me. At the moment, he’s the nearest thing I have to a boss. And the government agency we work for is so tiny and secret that I can’t even tell my own mother about it. Not even Tammy, my tiny little tabby cat, knows of its existence, which is mean, since her life has been in danger because of it.
Even worse was when we picked up Evie, and Angel asked her if she knew anything about my new boyfriend.
“Boyfriend?” Evie’s ears pricked up and she leaned forwards through the gap in the front seats. “You never told me you had a boyfriend!”
“No, well, I don’t,” I muttered.
Angel sent me a look of deep sarcasm. “Let me guess, he’s just a friend who takes some highly vital medicine which you spilled all down you and he had to lick it off or he’d die?”
I glared at her.
“Do I want to hear this?” Evie asked doubtfully.
“
I
don’t want to hear it,” I said.
“Come on, Soph,” Angel said, “if he’s not your boyfriend then what is he?”
A very good question. Luke is my working partner but also my superior. I suppose the closest word would be mentor, although that implies wisdom and patience and kindness, none of which are attributes Luke has in abundance. He’s also my lover, we spend every night together and every night is amazing, but by no stretch of the imagination is he my boyfriend. No siree.
“Look, it’s complicated,” I said, and both girls looked horribly disappointed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I would,” Angel said enviously, because despite being the most desirable thing on the planet, she’s also very shy and under permanent romantic scrutiny by all the tabloids and celeb magazines who have nothing better to do than wibble on about IC Winter’s daughter’s love life. Or lack of.
“What’s he look like?” Evie asked, and Angel jumped in.
“Gorgeous. All muscly and burly—”
“He’s not burly,” I interrupted. “I hate muscles. He’s lean. But very strong.”
“Mmm,” Evie said.
“He has blond hair and great cheekbones. A real ten,” Angel said admiringly.
Hey. I’m sleeping with a real ten. Go me.
“So why didn’t you mention him before?” Evie wanted to know.
“Because…” I had no answer. Because he’s a spy and officially speaking, he’s hardly supposed to exist? Because I really don’t have any words to describe our relationship at all?
Because I didn’t want you to hate me for breaking out of the singles club and getting the great sex that you’re missing?
“Oh my God,” Angel said, “is he the married one?”
“The
what
?” Evie cried.
Ahem. When I first met Luke and had to undertake an undercover mission or two, I may have told Angel that I was going on a date with a married man, so I couldn’t tell her anything about it.
“No,” I said, “he’s not married. But he’s really private and this is early days, so I don’t want to start trying to explain it when I’m not sure where it’s going.”
Yeah. That sounded good.
“But we’re your
friends
,” Evie said, clearly hurt, and I felt rotten. But I was determined not to cave, even though it cost me a lot in white chocolate mochas.
We were in Faith, watching Evie try on a pair of pink striped mules with clear Perspex heels when one of my phones bleeped in my cavernous bag. I carry a huge bag around with me because I need to be prepared for all eventualities. Therefore I have sticking plasters, sewing kit, green-dye defence spray, emergency makeup, deodorant, moisturiser, toothpaste and brush, spare underwear, water bottle, notepad and coloured pens, Italian phrase book (that’s a very long story), military ID and two phones, both with battery-powered chargers. Oh, and my SIG-Sauer P-239. And bullets.
How Luke gets by without all this crap, I have no idea. He just grabs his phone and keys and goes.
I hauled out the phone. It was my Nokia, the work phone, and there was a text message on it from the man himself.
New boss confirmed Karen Hanson. MI6 bigwig. Coming in tomo. U want the honours?
Not likely. Showing our new boss around the tiny but still unfathomable SO17 headquarters? Luke had spent the last two months trying to explain to me how the place worked, but I still didn’t get it. Probably this had something to do with the fact that, as the other SO17 agents were still recovering from awful injuries sustained in my one and only big takedown, me and Luke were the only people in the place. So we got a little distracted. By each other.
I texted back,
No, I’ll let you have the privilege.
He replied in seconds,
OK then but u have 2 pick Maria up & look after her.
Oh, joy.
It’s not that I don’t like Maria. I do. It’s that I’m totally intimidated by her. That and the fact that it’s my fault she’s spent the last two months in hospital, recovering from bullet wounds that were inflicted because I was too incompetent to look after myself.
I texted back a disconsolate affirmation, and looked up to see Evie paying for the shoes.
“How many pairs of shoes does she have?” Angel asked me.
“Oh, I don’t know. A few dozen. Maybe a hundred.”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but most of them were my mother’s. When is she ever going to wear them?”
“Angel, you sound like my brother.”
“Well, he has a point. Couldn’t she spend the money on something else?”
“Like what? She lives at home and doesn’t have a car.”
Angel wrinkled her pretty little nose. She has money, lots and lots of it, and I sometimes wonder why she bothers to work for Ace Airlines, because they pay in peanuts whereas the royalties from the films her mother made and the songs her father wrote, would keep her in Faith shoes for a very long time. Actually she could use the Faith shoes as door-stoppers, the money she has, and wobble around the house in Manolo Blahniks. But that’s Angel. Both tiny feet firmly planted.
I ought maybe to explain that Angel and Evie come from opposite sides of the friend divide. I went to school with Evie and have known her for years. We failed our GCSEs and our A levels together. I met Angel on my first day at Stansted Airport, working dreadful shifts for Ace Airlines. She, like me, has no great ambition and has worked there for far longer than anyone in their right mind ever would, because neither of us can think of another job to go to.
Well, actually, I have another job, but I can’t bloody tell anyone. And because of the amount of people who use Stansted Airport, I have to stay on there so I can legitimately keep an eye on anyone SO17 wants me to.
Shoes bought, we wandered up to the mall food court, where Evie bought a Happy Meal, Angel got Chinese and I got a low-fat sandwich, steaming with resentment that Angel inherited the thin and tiny gene, whereas I got the tall and curvy gene. I eat about half the calories Angel does, but I don't know if there’s some sort of osmosis going on, because she stays effortlessly tiny and perfect and I have to do sit-ups.
Well, I should do sit-ups. I never have. Lately Luke and I have been burning off a lot of calories…and you didn’t want to hear that. Okay.
Angel got a call from one of the many, many men who are in love with her, and like the polite child she is, dashed off to answer it out of earshot. Evie and I sat there chatting, waiting for her, both wishing we hadn’t eaten so much (I may have helped Angel finish some noodles), when suddenly someone tapped me on the shoulder and I looked up into sweet hazel eyes, shiny hair and a dazzling smile.
“Harvey!”
Harvey is one of my favourite people in the world. When I first met him I thought he was a felon, but it turns out he’s CIA and therefore on my side. Actually he sort of saved my life. He’s absolutely lovely—clean-cut, all-American, tall and broad shouldered and impeccably mannered.
