Spy Games (4 page)

“I’ve always liked Salome.” Huff tucked a lock of hair behind my ear with the attentive gentleness of a lover.

“I don’t know what that says about you.”

“I like women who can dance?”

I laughed.

The song ended. As we parted, Huff grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. “R, I need a favor.”

“Yeah?” I paused beside him just off the dance floor. “Just ask.”

“Two things.” He paused. “Two top secret things.”

“Top secret? You’re not working for FSC, are you?”

He shrugged and shot me an enigmatic grin.

“Are either of them immoral, illegal, or fattening? ’Cause I don’t do those.”

“Fattening, definitely not. Illegal, no way. Immoral?” He shrugged. “I have my fantasies.”

I smiled at his innuendo. “What do you want me to do?”

He shot me the grin again. “Hide a small flash drive in the ladies’ room here in the bar.” He gave me instructions.

“Hide a flash drive,” I said. “What’s on it? The secret to cold fusion?”

He laughed again. “No questions. The less you know, the better.”

“Oooooh, mystery and intrigue. I love mystery and intrigue, and I need a powder. I’ll do it,” I said when he finished. “And number two?”

“Mail a letter.”

“A letter?”

“A simple letter.” He patted his pocket. “It’s right here.”

I pursed my lips and made a big show of thinking about it. “I don’t mail explosives, threats, illegal substances, anthrax, or chain letters.”

“Chain letters?” His grin was practically heart-stopping. He obviously found me amusing. Amusing, fascinating, mysterious…I could go on.

“Hate those,” I said.

“That makes two of us. No chain letters. Just a letter to a friend.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding. “So I hide the drive and mail the letter and then what? War gives me a lecture about the dangers of doing a drop in the ladies’ room? No worries ’cause I always wash thoroughly, and use a paper towel to open the door when I leave.”

Huff laughed again. “I like you, R.”

“Wait!” I said as inspiration hit me. “I know. A bunch of double-agents come after me?” I raised a brow, begging for him to continue the gag.

He took my chin in his hand and smiled as he slipped the flash drive into my hand and whispered instructions on where to hide it without any embarrassment at all.

My eyes popped open at his knowledge of ladies’ rooms. “You sure? Not every one has them.”

He nodded, and continued. “And, Reilly, if a bunch of thugs or nasty double-agents come after you, give me up. Show them where you hid the drive.” He pulled me into a hug, and slipped an envelope into my tight back pocket. The man had magic hands.

“Give you up? You sure? I’m a good liar.”

He nodded. “Yeah, give me up. Whatever you do, be careful with that Beretta you have in your bag.”

I was so startled it took me a minute to speak. “You know?”

“Saw it this evening.”

“Don’t tell me you’re like that
Psych
detective and notice everything!” I wondered if anyone else had seen it.

“It’s my job.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded again.

“I have a permit to carry concealed.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I know how to use it. I have Bond Girl skills, you know.”

He nodded, smiling suggestively. “I’m guessing they’re not necessarily of the firearm variety.”

He’d guessed right there. I gave him a playful smile back.

He laughed. “You don’t want to use that gun.”

He smiled at the expression I gave him, confirming his guess. “R, I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not any devious double-agents, not your ex. I have your back.”

“Good.” I flashed him another bright smile. “While you’re at it, could you warn Peewee he’d better not report anything he sees here back to my ex?”

“Done.”

I squeezed the drive in my hand. “Well, there’s no time like the present.”

Then it was off to the ladies’ room to do the first deed. It’s true what they say about beer—it goes right through a girl. As I headed toward the powder room, Huff returned to the table and said something to Peewee. It may have been my imagination, but I thought Peewee paled. PIs, they had something on everyone.

There was a line in the ladies’ room. A long one and I was dancing. If I hadn’t been on a mission, I would have ducked into another one. Where had all these women come from? The bar wasn’t that busy. I had a feeling they were spilling over from some other function and hogging the bathroom that I was entitled to by way of actually patronizing the bar. Cheaters.

I stood in line, impatiently hoping the third stall in from the door magically opened up to coincide with me taking the lead spot in line. Huff had told me specifically to make the drop in the third stall. Guess he hadn’t been counting on the crowd in here. I was wondering how he knew there’d even be a third stall. I didn’t like the ideas that bounced into my head, like security cameras or men lurking in corners. I settled for hoping the person on the other end of the drop was a woman and had scoped out the scene ahead of time.

Even in desperate times with a spy mission hanging over my head, bathroom etiquette must be observed. I had to wait my turn. It was the first time in my life that I actually wished I was a mother with a small toilet-training child in tow. Yeah, not the thing most of us dream of. But you can always push to the front of the line if you have a kid hanging on to you, crying she has to go potty.

Just my luck the third stall opened up for the broad-beamed broad in front of me.

Crying child! Why didn’t I have a crying child?

I glanced around madly, but there didn’t seem to be any I could even beg, borrow, or steal. Not that stealing a child was a good idea, especially when you’re on a covert mission.

Broad-beam ambled into the stall with all the speed of a turtle. When she shut the door, the whole row of stalls shook.

Almost immediately, number two opened up. Reluctantly, I passed and let the girl behind me have it, making a lame excuse about how I could wait. Then number one. I passed again.

Someone turned on a faucet behind me. Suddenly, all I could hear was running water. I couldn’t block it out. I crossed my legs.

Number four opened up.

“Be my guest,” I said. My words came out sounding choked. In trying to hold everything in, even my vocal chords seized up. I silently cursed Broad-beam with every foul word I could think up. What was she doing in there?

On second thought, I didn’t want to know.

The lady behind me shook her head. “Look, you look miserable. Why don’t you go in?”

“No, thanks. I’m waiting for number three.”

“What on earth for?”

“Three’s my lucky number.”

She sighed and shook her head again. “Believe me, this in no place to get lucky.” She went into number four.

This waiting was so not covert. Just as I reached the point of actually thinking about dragging Broad-beam out of there, she threw open the stall door and staggered out, leaving a bad odor behind her.

Grimacing, I slipped in. All this waiting meant I had to do my business first. I set the drive on top of the feminine protection disposal receptacle, as Huff so elegantly and technically called it.

The automatic toilet flushed as I reached for a seat protector. It flushed again before I could sit down. I had to get another seat protector and move quicker this time.

I finished my business, stood, tidied myself, and scanned the stall. This was a high-class establishment. It had seat protectors, a room freshener, a feminine protection disposal receptacle, and the rare find—a sanitary protection disposal bag dispenser of lady-safe bags, all in satin finish chrome. Wow!

I was supposed to hide the drive in the bottom of the feminine protection disposal thing beneath the liner bag. I grabbed a piece of toilet paper and picked up the drive. Now that my hands were dirty, I couldn’t touch the drive. I tried the lid. Stuck. I tried. I pried. I shook the stall. The toilet flushed.

Someone squealed, “What’s going on in there? Do you need help?” in a pitch just below only-dogs-can-hear-it range.

The lid was bent and totally stuck and I was shaking the foundations and taking more time in the stall than Broad-beam had. The natives were getting restless. Never stand between a woman and her stall. I had to get out of there.

I thought back over Huff’s instructions. He couldn’t have meant to hide the drive in the disposal bin. No way. That’s nasty. I had no desire to reach in there. Not without some heavy-duty gloves.

I glanced at the lady-safe bag dispenser. Yeah, he must have meant that, the sanitary protection disposal bag
dispenser
, not the receptacle. Men were likely to mix these things up. I’d straighten him out later. I reached into my purse and found a bandage.

Using the toilet paper as a glove, I slid the drive up into the dispenser and tucked it so it rested on the inside lip. Then I carefully secured the drive in place with the bandage.

Mission accomplished, I left the stall under the watchful glares of several dancing women.

Back in the bar, I slid into my spot at the table next to Van with Huff’s envelope burning in my booty pocket. Van looked up as I scooted in my chair. His conversation with Jim came to an abrupt halt.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.

“You weren’t,” Van said. “We were just marveling that you managed to dance to a lounge-lizard classic.”

“Hey,” I said. “It had a beat.”

“Sure,” he said.

Jim grinned, but I noticed he kept glancing over at Cliff and Huff.

“What did I miss?” I asked eagerly. I was a girl. I liked gossip and hated to miss anything juicy.

“Jim was just telling me about his practice in LA,” Van said.

“LA? Don’t tell me you’re an entertainment lawyer?” I asked, addressing Jim.

Jim took a swig of beer. “You don’t like entertainment lawyers?”

“I have my beefs with them. Too many celebs get off because of celebrity lawyers.” I was thinking of Ket, who was only a minor, local LA-type celebrity, but who’d gotten off with a slap on the wrist for beating me practically into a coma.

“I represent celebrity clients.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it. Divorce lawyer?” I took a sip of my daiquiri and set it back down. The ice was melting. It was too watery for my tastes.

“Divorce. Scrapes with the law.”

“A celebrity criminal defense lawyer.” I spit the words out like the anathema they were.

Van looked startled by my outburst, but Jim laughed.

“Don’t hold back,” Jim said. “Tell me what you really think.”

“Sorry,” I said, covering. “But if the Bruno Mali fits…”

Jim laughed again. “I can see it’s going to take some work to convince you we’re not all bad.”

Huff got another call. He looked at the number and gave the table a thump to get our attention. “Hey, I’ve got business to attend to. I’m calling it a night. See you all in the morning. Seven sharp. And you”—he pointed at me—“owe me a change-up.”

“Find me a softball,” I said, disappointed by his sudden departure.

He winked. “You got it.”

As it so often goes, once someone leaves the party, everyone else follows. Steve, Peewee, Cliff, and Jim took Huff’s lead and begged off, leaving just Van and me. I would have headed out myself, but it seemed rude to leave a hot guy like Van hanging alone.

There was a moment of awkward silence after the others had gone. As was my nature, I had to say something. Only I was trying to steer clear of questions about Van’s line of work. When we’d all first introduced ourselves, he’d mentioned that he was a professor of mathematics.

I’ve always been pretty good at math, but that didn’t mean I wanted to waste precious getting-to-know-you time discussing imaginary numbers, polar coordinates, and negative infinity.

So instead of discussing math’s imponderables, I said, “Van. Is that short for something?”

“Van-Rex.”

“Unusual name. I bet you don’t find it on toothbrushes and key chains.”

“Not all that often, no,” he said. I liked his smile. “It’s a family name.”

“So you’re Van the second, third, fifteenth?”

“None of the above. Dad lucked out and dodged the name. I’m named after my great-great-grandfather or something. He was a war hero.”

I nodded. “Well, I like it. Reminds me of a dinosaur. Very powerful.”

He looked bemused by my comment, so I explained. “You know, T-rex? Van-Rex?”

“Ah, now I see the correlation. What about Reilly? You probably have to order special from Lillian Vernon to get that on a toothbrush.”

“Lillian Vernon! You shop there often?”

“It’s Grandma’s favorite store.”

I laughed. “Reilly’s my grandmother’s maiden name. Mom thought she was having another boy. I have two older brothers.”

We made more small talk in which Van revealed very little about himself.

“You’re a softball player?” he said, referring to Huff’s comment about my change-up.

“I was. I pitched for the University of Washington.” I downplayed my ball career in case he wasn’t a big fan of lady jocks.

“I like softball players,” he said and I couldn’t really tell if he was flirting or not. “Jenny Finch. Cat Osterman. Hot.” He grinned. “I’ve always liked tall girls.”

“So you’re a pitcher, first baseman kind of guy?” I asked, flirting back. Hey, if mark number one bails, it’s off to mark number two. Not that Van was necessarily my second choice.

“Give me a girl in a ponytail any day.”

At that outrageous comment, I had to laugh. “We use them for intimidation, you know,” I said. “Stretched out to my full five ten with a high ponytail giving me several inches I can really psych out a batter.”

“It’s all those crazy ribbons in the ponytails you softball girls wear that distract me. They turn me on.” He grinned like a bad boy, but I could tell he was teasing about the ribbons.

“You have a thing for schoolgirls?”

“No, I like the grown-up kind of girl. And for the record—bet you couldn’t psych me out.”

Bet I’d like to try.

“I’ll rise to that challenge. If Huff finds me a softball, I’ll make you eat your words.”

“You’re on. But I warn you—I was a hell of a Little Leaguer.” He paused. “And I played college baseball on scholarship.”

Even better. I knew there was a reason I liked him. I had a thing for baseball players.

“What position did you play?”

“Guess.”

“First base.”

“Bingo.”

We discussed the finer points of baseball and softball, stats, our favorite teams and players, and the merits of serving garlic fries at stadiums.

When the discussion heated to the point of becoming a no-win argument, he changed the subject. “What do you do now?”

“I’m vice president of sales and marketing for 3D Sportswear.”

I told him about the company. How we’d started out making athletic gear for women. Our ace in the hole was a line of sports bras for full-figured girls.

“Most sports bras only support up to a C cup,” I said, giving him my spiel. “We make comfortable, moisture-wicking, well-supported bras for the D cup and beyond. No woman wants to be a joggler.”

“Joggler?”

“A jogger who jiggles.”

Talk about breasts and a man will naturally be tempted to look. I couldn’t help noticing Van’s gaze flicking between mine and my face. And, yep, I was a double-D cupper myself.

“Double D, I get,” he said. “Where does the third D in 3D come from?”

I smiled. Boys!

“The three musts for an athlete—drive, dedication, determination. Those are our three Ds. Yours is a common misperception.”

He didn’t even have the good grace to look embarrassed. “When are you going to confess to being the 3D Sportswear Girl?”

I laughed and stared into my daiquiri. “I
was
the 3D girl. No longer.” Since the scandal with Ket, I’d been forced behind the scenes. I left the thought there and tried to forget about the scars.

“
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition two years ago. Your 3D ad was opposite the first page of the swimsuit spread. Straight up I thought you should have been the centerfold.”

I smiled down into my watery drink and stirred it idly with my straw to hide my embarrassment. “Thanks. Paid ads don’t make the centerfold.”

“They should.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out, “You think I’m pretty!”

I remembered the ad he referred to all too well. The picture was a side shot of me squatting. I was wearing a red sports bra and boy shorts. Very tiny boy shorts. And tennis shoes. And glistening with the glow of exercise. My hair was pulled into a high ponytail. My right side faced the camera.

And for good reason. My left arm bore a bruise the exact replica of Ket’s handprint, so clear a crime scene investigator could have dusted it for prints. My left eye was black, covered by makeup, my hair, lighting, and the angle of the pose.

“Reilly?”

I hadn’t been aware I’d been lost in reverie. “Sorry. Just reminiscing about my glory days. You’re the second guy tonight to remember me in
SI
.”

He regarded me silently, ignoring my reference to Huff. “Playing softball and modeling for endorsements, that’s some life.”

I suppose it sounded that way to a math professor.

“Yeah, a real fairy tale.” I came off too bitter.

He cocked a brow, obviously surprised by my reaction.

“Sorry.” I laughed to cover. “That came out wrong. Modeling for 3D wasn’t really an endorsement, not like the big athletes get. I just sort of fell into it.” Back when my life was charmed.

“How does one just ‘fall into’ an international modeling campaign? A talent scout for the Ford Agency showed up at the diamond one day?” He was ribbing me, probably thinking I was being falsely modest.

“Almost right. My neighbor did.”

Van looked like he was expecting an explanation. You know me, I fill silences.

“Before she founded 3D, Dara Light lived across the street from my parents,” I said. “She was a big fan of mine when I played for Kentwood High School.” Thinking of Dara, I smiled. “Dara’s a lady jock, a buxom fireplug of a woman.

“My sophomore year in college I was playing summer ball, giving private pitching lessons, and working at the U’s softball summer camp for girls. One day when I was home visiting, Dara popped over. She’d been working on a sports bra for the full-figured woman. She was putting together a brochure to take to potential investors and needed a ‘hot, young, athletic thing’ to model it and I fit the bill. Plus I worked for free.

“Dara got her financing thanks, she claimed, to how sexy I looked in the bra. She insisted that I was
the
look of 3D and kept me on as 3D took off. She started paying me, gave me free sports bras and I just kept modeling for her. Things grew from there. I quit modeling last year and helped Dara run the campaign to find the next 3D girl.” I’d reached the unhappy part of the story. I didn’t feel like talking anymore. I glanced at my watch. “It’s getting late. I should turn in.”

“I’ll walk you back,” Van said.

I was hoping he would. Safety rule number one for stalking victims—never go anywhere alone.

“Great! Would you mind swinging through the lobby with me? The desk clerk promised me a new room.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Mine smells of smoke,” I said, covering. “I asked for nonsmoking. I’m allergic.” Well, I’m allergic to matchbooks left by stalkers. Plus I needed to mail that letter.

In the lobby, I slipped Huff’s letter from my pocket into the mail drop in one swoop. Stealthy as I tried to be, I didn’t have Huff’s dexterity. Van caught a glimpse of my postal action.

“Mailing postcards already?” he asked.

“There’s nothing that says ‘I love you’ like a free postcard. Mom likes that I remember her.”

“Geez! Your mom’s easy to please. Maybe she could talk to mine.”

I shrugged. There was a different clerk at the desk than the one I’d spoken to earlier. I gave her my name, saying that I was switching rooms, hoping I didn’t have to re-explain everything. But the other guy seemed to have taken care of things and filled her in.

“We have three rooms available,” she said. “Room one forty-two.”

“That would be ground floor?” I asked.

She nodded.

“No, thanks. I don’t do ground floor.”

“Room seven fifteen?” She looked optimistic.

I made her show it to me on a map. “Next to the fire escape. No good.”

“That leaves…six twenty-three.” She sounded hesitant. “But that’s on the same floor. You may experience the same allergy problem as before—”

“She’ll take it,” Van said, looking from her to me. “That’s right next to mine.”

I agreed and the girl made my new key.

“You’ll have one more entry on your old key, to allow you to gather your things and move to the new room,” she said as she handed the key over. “That’ll complete your transfer.”

“Great. Thanks so much.” I debated whether to dismiss Van. Only I couldn’t quite make myself do it. Which gave me no choice. I had to speak again to the clerk in front of him. “I need you to keep my new room number confidential. Can you make a note not to give it out to anyone? Not even my mother. Not even me.”

Evidently, the girl didn’t feel like asking questions was part of her job. She’d probably heard it all. She tapped something in on her computer and that was that.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask to speak with the hotel security manager,” Van said as we walked away toward the elevators.

“Tips from
Oprah
,” I said. “A woman traveling alone can’t be too careful.”

“This has nothing to do with winning another ‘I’ve been spied’ shirt?” His tone was light. I don’t think I threw him off the scent, though.

When we reached my old room, my hand shook as I tried to insert the key card.

“May I?” Van took the key card and opened the door.

“No!” I grabbed his arm as he prepared to enter.

He paused and gave me a curious look, which I ignored as I scanned the room from the doorway. Ket had a bad habit of sliding warning messages under doors. Fortunately, I didn’t see any.

“Okay. Looks like FSC didn’t pull any more tricks,” I said, trying to slide past Van. But he held me back.

“I’ll go in first. You stay here until I give the all clear. Here, hold our uniforms.” He was polite enough not to call me a big, fat chicken as he handed me our new wardrobes. For all he knew I was overreacting to the staged break-in.

I kept an eye on him as he stepped into the bathroom. “Everything okay in there?”

“Nothing here but soap, towels, and toilet paper.” He stepped back out and checked the closet.

I noticed he was frowning. “Something wrong?”

Dear God, don’t let him have found another calling card from Ket, I thought. My heart raced with fear at the mere thought.

Van slid the closet door closed without comment and I relaxed a little. He took a step into the room and spied my packed suitcase sitting on the suitcase stand by the dresser and turned back to look at me. “You’re certainly prepared. Everything zipped up and ready to go.”

“Yep. That’s me.”

He picked up my suitcase. “I’ll carry this for you.”