Diamonds Are Truly Forever: An Agent Ex Novel 2 (4 page)

“That’s a bad thing?” He did a visual of the room. “Your room’s this way. Up the stairs.” He motioned for her to follow him.

Her room?
Although his apparent indifference toward her cut down on the need to fend off any awkward sexual advances or expectations, it piqued her all the same. He was
supposed
to desire her. They’d always had chemistry. Much as she hated to admit it, she still felt it, though it would take a truth serum to drag that bit of intel out of her.

He showed her up a second flight of stairs and walked past a spacious master suite, opening a door into a cramped second bedroom. “Make yourself at home.”

He’d obviously been intending to use the room as an office. A laptop sat on a desk cluttered with boxes.

He caught her staring at it. “I’ll just move that.”

He went to the desk and scooped the computer up before she got so much as a glimpse of anything interesting on it. Not that he wouldn’t have everything password-protected and secured, but a girl could dream.

She’d have to learn subtlety, quickly. She’d have loved a peek into his computer life.

Disappointed, she scanned the room. He’d furnished it with the desk and the ratty hide-a-bed he’d inherited from his parents. She shuddered at its dinginess, remembering what they’d done on those worn-out old cushions. She tried not to blush.

“I suppose you have sheets?”

He stared at her as if she were asking for platinum jewelry. “I might be able to scare up a sleeping bag.”

“You should have warned me. I would have grabbed some from the house.”

He shrugged. “Stay put. I’ll go get that movable storage unit you call a suitcase.”

She watched him leave before plunking down on the 1990s hide-a-bed, thinking a good night’s sleep would be impossible on that thing even if someone wasn’t trying to kill her.

She shuddered. She couldn’t honestly think of another person besides the Brazilian Bevil who hated her enough to take a potshot at her or who had anything to gain by her death. And Bevil was in a Paraguay jail.

This was either the Bevil’s handiwork or somehow connected with Drew’s job. It appeared the foreign espionage community may not have gotten the memo about their impending divorce. She sighed, silently cursing inept enemy spies.

Neither scenario was reassuring.

What was taking that man so long to bring her suitcase up?

Thoughts of him lying on the garage floor in a pool of blood gave her the courage to get up and look for him. She found Drew in the living room, her bag at his feet as he texted someone.

“Hey!” She tilted her head as she studied him. “I thought you were dead.”

He snapped his phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. “No such luck.”

“Don’t stop on my account.” She strolled over and pulled the handle out from her suitcase, ready to roll it to the stairs.

He removed her hand from the handle and rolled the suitcase aside. “You’ll never be able to lug that thirty-two-inch monster up the stairs. I’ll take it up later.” He went to the fridge. “What’ll you have?”

“I’m fine.”

He tossed her a diet cola. She caught it just before the can struck her in the chest. “Nice aim.”

“Good reflexes.” He grabbed a beer.

“We need to talk.” She sat in one of four cheap chairs surrounding an IKEA table in the kitchen. He’d spared all expense on furnishings.

He paused at a cupboard. “Glass?”

She tapped the top of her can, in no hurry to open it and be sprayed. “With ice.”

“No icemaker.”

“A glass is fine. A
clean
glass.” Oops, it just slipped out there.

“And she insults my housekeeping skills.” He smiled and her heart did a little flip. She knew that smile. It used to mean good things, like a trip to the bedroom.

She pretended to study the tabletop so he couldn’t read her thoughts. The man could give a mentalist a run for his money. “Not insults, critiques.”

“You haven’t even seen the glass yet.”

“I’ve seen the living room.”

He laughed. “The shock of being shot at must be wearing off. You’re getting your color and your sharp tongue back.”

“Sorry.”

He pulled up a chair and twisted off the top of his beer bottle.

She studied him. “So, who do you think’s responsible for this forced reunion of ours? One of your enemies or…”

Staci dropped her gaze, unable to look Drew in the eye. “Beto Bevilacqua threatened to kill me just before I blacked out in Ciudad.” She glanced up at her husband.

Drew’s expression became instantly stony and his jaw ticked.

Staci was almost sorry she’d brought Bevil up again. Drew didn’t talk about Paraguay and his horrific mission in Ciudad del Este where his friend and fellow agent, Jack Pierce, had been killed in an explosion.

“Bevil’s in a Paraguay jail,” he said, softly.

“Which wouldn’t stop a drug lord like him and you know it. Don’t spare me, Drew. Bevil has contacts on the outside, no doubt.” She studied the water beading on her soda-pop can.

Drew didn’t refute her.

“If Bevil’s not behind the attack, this has to be connected with your job somehow,” Staci said. “Who would you suspect?”

“Either way, I’m at fault.” He stared back at her, his eyes unreadable. “The list of my enemies is way too long and I couldn’t tell you if, or who, I suspected even if I wanted to. National security.”

She rolled her eyes, glad for the change of subject. “Like I haven’t heard that one before. Just once I’d like to hear a straight answer like a normal husband would give.”

“If a normal husband, as you put it, had an enemy, drug lord or not, who wanted you dead, believe me, you wouldn’t want the straight answer. A regular guy would lie to save himself and maybe to spare you. He just wouldn’t lie as convincingly as I do.” He lost his serious expression and grinned, looking confident he’d made a good point.

She crossed her arms. “How about a general description of the most likely candidates, then? I like to be prepared while I’m jumping at shadows.”

“Human. Probably.”

She gave him her serious
Tell me the truth
look. “Come on. How about a little more detail?”

He shrugged. “Could be a host of totally dissimilar-looking people. Male. Female. All masters of disguise. They could even hire hit men we don’t know about to do the deed. A physical description’s useless, seriously. Best advice—stay out of dark alleys and corners, and don’t trust anyone.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re seriously horrible at calming nerves?” She shook her head. “I suppose you’ve already contacted Em? Is that who you were texting?”

“Emmett? Why would I contact him?” He had a teasing look in his eye.

Staci tried not to look as exasperated as she felt. “Because he’s your boss and he can help us. Put a hit out on whoever did this.”

“Wow! She’s vicious when someone’s after her.” Drew shook his head and laughed softly. “Emmett will only put a hit out if it suits his purpose. You know that.”

He cleared his throat. “Sorry about earlier, the danger I’ve apparently put you in, one way or another. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.” He got that faraway look in his eyes that he had when he was thinking disturbing thoughts. She recognized this particular version of it from their marriage.

He was most likely thinking about Ciudad del Este again. She never should have gone with him on that mission. She’d nearly gotten them both killed. Yet somehow he blamed himself for the drug lords beating her senseless.

They sat in silence for a beat or two. Finally, she hazarded a stab at comforting him. “You’re good at your job, Drew. You couldn’t have stopped them.”

She meant in Ciudad del Este, and again now, but she didn’t elaborate.

“Sure.” He picked up his beer and took a swig, acting as if the conversation was over.

So typical of him.
Men!
She wasn’t going to let him clam up that easily this time.

“You still haven’t said
why
you’re undercover as yourself. What’s your mission? Why as yourself? And what in the world are you doing on a domestic mission again? I thought the official line is that spying on the citizens at home is forbidden.”

Which made her worry even more. A domestic mission was extremely delicate and dangerous.

“You know how the Agency feels about the official line. That stuff about not operating on US soil is urban legend.” He gave her a half grin. “I can’t tell you anything.”

She pursed her lips, wildly trying to think how to proceed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ‘moving back’ and staying for a while when I called you to come get your stuff? I thought you were just in town for a few weeks until things were final.”

He stared at her with such intensity she felt she might crumble. “Would it have mattered?”

CHAPTER THREE

Staci looked down at the table and traced a pattern in the condensation from the bottom of her can to avoid answering his question. Pretending she hadn’t heard it seemed the safest, most humane course of action. “What do we do now? About the sniper, I mean.” She peeked up at him from beneath her bangs. At her question, he visibly relaxed.

“I’ve put feelers out.”

She still couldn’t wrap her mind around the events of the day. Staci took a deep breath. “So what
do
we do now, really?”

“We act the part of the happily reunited couple until I’ve taken care of things. Now go call your mom and friends and get the ball rolling.”

She scowled at him. Only her friends Mandy and Willow, who’d also been married to spies, knew Drew worked for the spying arm of the CIA. Everyone else, including her mom and stepdad, and Drew’s parents, thought Drew was a sales executive who spent so much time on the road that their marriage had failed.

“I don’t like this, Drew. We’re going to end up hurting the people we care about most. They’ll be happy for us, or try to be. Imagine how they’ll feel a few days or weeks from now when you catch these creeps and we go our separate ways again.”

“Stace—”

She shook her head and waved his protests aside. “If I were a braver woman, I’d just walk away. Let this wacko kill me if he will.” She stared at the table again. “I’m just too much of a coward.”

“No!” Drew grabbed her hand.

His outburst startled her. Her heart pounded wildly, but she still couldn’t look at him.

“It’s not just about you.” He paused. “Think what that would do to
me,
Stace.”

The raw emotion in his voice made her ache for what used to be between them.

“Do you think I could live with myself, knowing I was responsible for your death?” He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

She sniffed, trying to hold back tears. Sometimes it was too easy to think of him as amoral, invincible, and without feelings. She hated times like these, when he seemed to be the caring man she’d married. Especially now, when she felt vulnerable and was trying to put him in the past, and he insisted on reminding her he was human.

“Believe me, there are bigger issues we’re involved in, too,” he said, still holding her gaze. “More lives are at stake than our own.”

She swallowed hard and pulled her hand out from his. She hated this chasm between rock and hard place. “So what do I tell people?”

“As little as possible,” he said without missing a beat. “That I’ve quit the job you hated so much. I’ve gotten a local marketing gig, hardly any travel, so you’ve come back to me.” He paused. “And Stace, try to sound loving and happy when you tell them the good news.”

Her heart leaped into her throat.
Good news, right.

“What about Mandy? I can tell her the truth, can’t I? After all, she was married to one of your best friends from the Agency. We can trust her.”

“No, Stace. We don’t trust anyone, not even Mandy. Not Willow, either. The fewer people who know, the better, and the safer you’ll be.

“It’s only a half-truth. Even you should be able to carry that one off.” He got up and handed her the phone.

She thrust it back at him. “I’ll use my cell.”

He refused to take it. “Use the landline. It’s more secure.”

“You’re sure?”

“I check it for bugs regularly.” He scooped his keys up off the counter.

“Going someplace?”
Of course he’s running off.

“Yeah, to get some groceries. All I have in the fridge is beer and leftovers. You’re drinking the last can of pop.”

“Nice to know you’re a considerate host. And?” She knew full well groceries weren’t at the top of his mind.

“To investigate before the scene goes totally cold and get that window fixed before you go broke paying for heat.”

“First forty-eight hours and drafts, those are your concerns?” Yeah, she knew, solve the crime in the first forty-eight or likely you’d never solve it. She started out of her chair.