Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

A lyssa was being irrational.

She set down the dryer too hard in the hotel bathroom and yanked her brush through her hair.

Wasn’t identifying the problem the first step toward reaching a solution?

She couldn’t help her irrationality, though.

It irritated her that Callan was right about Charles—the terrorist, Dariush Ghazi.

It irritated her that Michael had agreed with every one of Callan’s pronouncements.

It irritated her that Callan knew more about Ghazi than she did, considering that the man had attacked her family.

When Michael had called at just after five that morning, he’d apologized for not getting back to her sooner. He and Leila had been sailing off the coast of some remote Indonesian island. He hadn’t checked his phone in hours because, you know.

Newlyweds.

He’d filled her in on the role Ghazi had played in the attack on his family’s Maine vacation home the previous Christmas.

Alyssa still didn’t know much about what had happened, though she’d seen the house after the fact. Bullet holes and shattered glass. Second-floor rooms had caught fire, thanks to a Molotov cocktail lobbed through a window.

The beautiful home her uncle’s family had built, one nail at a time, had been a mess, but between Uncle Roger, Aunt Peggy, the six Wright brothers and their wives and girlfriends and kids, plus Alyssa and her sisters and Mom and Dad, they’d had the downstairs cleaned up and the upstairs mostly rebuilt in time for Christmas.

No easy feat, that.

She’d known, theoretically, that terrorists had been behind the attack.

But now she had a face to go with the story, a man who’d affected a very believable British accent. A man who’d hired her, been friendly with her.

Targeted her.

“It’s no coincidence, Alyssa. Ghazi is smart, and he knows our family.”

“How? How could you let that happen?” She’d allowed all her fear and frustration to seep into her voice. Shouldn’t a CIA agent be better at hiding his identity?

Michael hadn’t appreciated the implication. He’d told her a story about old friends of Jasmine's who’d needed help, and Derrick jumping in, and Iraqi nationals who snuck across the border and…

“I’m not getting into the details,” Michael had said. “And I’m not blaming anyone. The point is, whatever Ghazi’s plotting, you’re involved. I’m going to book us a flight out of here?—”

“Absolutely not. You’re on your honeymoon.”

“You’re in danger, and it’s my fault.”

“You just said it’s not your fault. It was Derrick and Jasmine who led them to us.”

“Because of?—”

“It doesn’t matter, Michael. You’re not coming back. I’m safe right now. I’m with Callan Templeton.”

“He’s a good guy. Trust him.”

She’d managed to stifle her groan enough that Michael hadn't heard it over the phone. But she could put up with Callan if it meant not ruining Michael and Leila’s honeymoon.

“And anyway, if worse comes to worse, I could call Dad.”

“Yeah, well…” Michael’s hesitation had her heart thumping.

“What?”

“I’m not sure Uncle Gavin can help you with this one, even if he wants to. I’m not saying don’t call him, but I’d rather you stick with Callan and reach out to me if you need help.”

What did that mean? Dad knew everybody in the intelligence community. He had money and contacts.

She knew it wasn’t true, but in her head, her father could do anything.

“Call me if you need me,” Michael had said. “I can get on the first flight, but it’ll take some time. Maybe we should just head?—”

“Don’t you dare. I’m safe. I’ll let you know if anything changes. If you cut your honeymoon short because of this, I’ll never help you with anything again.”

“So you want me to come home,” he’d joked, “to give you an excuse.”

She’d forced a laugh, trying to sound more confident than she felt. But his words resonated even now.

“Whatever Ghazi’s plotting, you’re involved.”

She finished drying her hair and added some makeup because… Well, not because of Callan. Just because she didn’t know what else to do.

All she wanted was to be un involved in Ghazi’s schemes.

As long as she could remember, she’d wanted entrance into her father’s world of intrigue and spies, a world he’d willingly helped Michael become a part of. But she’d been denied again and again. And now, against her will, she’d been sucked in, not as an agent. Not even as an analyst, like she had been before she’d quit the NSA.

Nope.

Alyssa had somehow become a victim.

The whole thing prickled like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

A knock sounded, and she hurried out of the bedroom and through the living room to answer it. Of course it was a hotel employee delivering breakfast. But fear had her pausing, hand on the knob. “Who is it?”

“It’s Aline,” a woman answered.

Alyssa looked through the peephole, then swung the door open to a familiar gray-haired woman.

“Good morning, Ms. Crenshaw.” The woman winked as she pushed a cart into the short hallway, carrying with it the scents of bacon and pancakes.

“Good to see you, Aline.” Alyssa had known the Brazilian housekeeper since she was a girl.

“Your father is with you?” Aline transferred the covered dishes from the cart onto the dining table.

“Not this time.”

Callan’s bedroom door opened, and he stepped out. “Something smells good out here.”

Aline nodded to him, then shot a look at Alyssa, mouthing aye-aye-aye .

The look on her face, and the implication of her reaction, had Alyssa’s cheeks burning.

At least Callan had put on a shirt. She couldn’t imagine the housekeeper’s reaction if she’d caught the man in his pajama pants, that flat abdomen, those defined muscles.

Alyssa managed not to fan her face at the memory.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Mr. Crenshaw.” Aline turned her back on him and waggled her eyebrows at Alyssa as she walked out.

Alyssa locked the door behind her.

“I think she’s scandalized.” Callan didn’t seem all that upset at the notion.

“You could’ve stayed in the bedroom until she left.”

“I needed to know who you’d willingly let into our suite. I’d prefer you let me open the door from now on, please. We need to be careful.” He rounded the table and pulled out a chair for her. “Milady.”

“I need another cup of coffee.”

She escaped into the kitchen and refilled her mug, not that she needed more. She was hiding until her stupid blush was under control.

Why did that man have such an effect on her? She didn’t even like him.

That wasn’t strictly true.

Callan had always been a competitor, but he’d never been cruel or petty.

She opened the refrigerator, calling, “You want a bottle of water?”

“Sure.”

She startled and spun.

Callan was right behind her, taking up way too much space. And grinning, the jerk. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sure he did, but she wouldn’t say so.

He was still chuckling as he reached past her into the fridge and grabbed two bottles of water. “Come on. We need to talk.”

She returned to the dining table and lifted the lids off the plates of food. Scrambled eggs with bacon and toast, pancakes with sides of butter and maple syrup, and a yogurt parfait. There were two glasses of orange juice and a bowl of cut-up fruit.

He peered over her shoulder, much closer than necessary, his breath fanning the skin behind her ear.

She shivered, praying he didn’t notice how his nearness affected her.

“Which is whose?” Worry tinged his words.

She was tempted to tell him it was all for her, just to mess with him.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a few options. I’d like the yogurt, but I can eat the toast instead.”

He plopped the lid back on the pancakes, slid the yogurt in front of the chair he’d pulled out for her, and then gripped the back of it. “After you.”

“I can seat myself.”

“Can you? I wasn’t sure.” Annoyance carried on his words. He waited until she’d settled in the chair, then rounded the table, sat across from her, and dragged the eggs closer. “You’re going to have to get used to having me around, not stiffen whenever I touch you.” He sipped from one of the glasses of juice, and his eyes widened. “Wow. This is good.”

She nodded to the juice. “It’s freshly squeezed. Why?”

“Why do they squeeze oranges when the juice comes in cartons?” He shrugged. “Before today, I would’ve guessed snobbery, but?—”

“You know what I mean. Why do I have to get used to you?”

“Because I’m not going anywhere. Because engaged people don’t cringe when they’re together. They like being together. They like to touch.”

“You know this because you’ve been engaged?”

“I know this because I’ve been in love. And because, you know, I live on the planet and have eyes.” He forked a bite of breakfast.

She focused on stirring her parfait, mixing the granola and berries into the yogurt, not thinking about Callan’s being in love. Or having been, it sounded like. Which meant he wasn’t now.

Not that it was any of her business. Not that she should care.

She dug into her yogurt, then swallowed a bite. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. “Which game is that?”

“The we’re-engaged-and-in-love game. I’ve got better things to do than play pretend.”

His close-lipped smile was anything but happy.

“What?” She didn’t temper the demanding tone.

“Okay.” He ate a slice of bacon, then worked on his eggs.

Okay? That was all he had? Okay?

What did that mean?

Callan finished the first plate of food, then uncovered the pancakes. “You want some of these?”

“Go ahead.”

He traded his empty plate for the full one, buttered the stack, then covered the whole thing in maple syrup.

Apparently, the thought of terrorists didn’t affect his appetite.

A low buzzing had her pushing back in her chair. She found her phone, which was vibrating with a call, and read the caller ID.

“It’s him. It’s Ghazi.” Her pitch was too high. She took a breath. “Charles.”

If she was going to talk to the man, she needed to think of him as Charles Sanders, British entrepreneur, not Dariush Ghazi, international terrorist and murderer.

She turned to find Callan, once again, right behind her.

“We need to make some decisions before you answer that.”

She wanted to get the conversation over with, but Callan, for all his silence and stuffing his mouth with food, clearly had more to say.

Carrying the ringing phone, she scooted past Callan—the man had no sense of personal space—and returned to the table.

“I talked to my boss this morning.” He sat across from her. “He’s not happy with me. He didn’t say so outright, but he implied that Ghazi wasn’t the only one at your dinner last night who was being watched.”

The phone finally stopped ringing. “Someone else was there? One of Ghazi’s people, or…?” Too late, she realized what he meant. “Me? They’re watching me? Your people?”

“Not the Agency, Alyssa. I assume FBI, but Malcolm didn’t spell it out.”

“But why?—?”

“Your client is a terrorist. You’re a hacker. They can’t assume you’re innocent or unaware. My boss wants you to use your connection with Ghazi to get information. He implied that if you don’t, it’ll look bad for you.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You haven’t knowingly done anything wrong.”

She thought back over the information she’d gotten for Charles Sanders. Maybe it was technically illegal, but it wasn’t as if she’d get caught. And after the fact, there was no way to prove she’d done it.

Maybe no way for your run-of-the-mill law enforcement agencies, but the NSA, the CIA, the FBI…

They could figure it out.

But how was she supposed to do her job if she couldn’t occasionally access private systems?

Yeah, that excuse was really going to fly.

What a pickle she’d gotten herself into. Even when she tried to do the right thing, she managed to mess it up.

Dad was right about her. She was a useless, worthless fool.

Callan was watching her, eyes narrowed as if he were trying to read her thoughts.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t think Ghazi is going to let you back out of your relationship.”

“Relationship? It’s not?—”

“Bad choice of words.” He lifted his hand to silence her. “The point is, I don’t think it’s going to work. For one thing, Malcolm doesn’t want you to pass the name along.”

“Why? Who is this guy?”

“I don’t think he knows. Maybe Michael and his team will have more information for us. The point is, you’re going to have to tell Ghazi you haven’t gotten it yet, and eventually that you can’t get it.”

“He’s not going to like that.” She pushed back in her chair.

Why, why, why had she started working with him?

She needed the money to keep her business alive, but it wasn’t as if she were starving. She’d rather have a failed business than…than all of this.

She’d done her homework on Charles Sanders, same as she did her homework on all her clients. Sometimes people had good reasons for hiding, and she wasn’t about to expose somebody who’d risked life and limb to get away from an abusive spouse or a vengeful criminal.

Everything she’d learned about Charles Sanders had confirmed the story he’d told her. Obviously, she’d failed to detect his lies.

“You’ll tell him you won’t be able to find the name, and you’re taking a vacation. Use me as an excuse. Tell him your fiancé is back in town, sooner than you expected. We’re planning a wedding, and there’s just no time for business. You’ve enjoyed working with him. Whatever you would normally do in this situation, do that.”

“But your boss wants me to get information. How can I do that if?—?”

“Get out of it if you can. I’ll deal with Malcolm. If you need to get an attorney, then so be it. Legal troubles won’t hurt you, but Ghazi…might.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel safe.”

“I wish you were safe, Alyssa. I wish I could…” His words faded.

“You don’t think he’s going to let me off the hook.”

“I do not. I think he’ll coerce you, somehow, to work with him. If he does that, then you could go into hiding. But this guy has a pretty extensive network. I don’t know if that’ll make you safe.”

“I can’t hide for the rest of my life.”

“Better to hide than end up…” Callan pressed his lips closed and looked away.

“He knows who I am,” Alyssa said. “He knows my family. How do I know he won’t target them?”

“You don’t. He could do that.”

“So going into hiding won’t work. Tell me you have a Plan C.”

“You’re going to have to work with him, do what Malcolm wants. Get information for him, and hopefully from him. And then pass that along to the Agency.”

“If he finds out I’m working against him?”

“You can’t let that happen.”

“I don’t know how to do this.” Fear had her volume rising. “What if I mess it up?”

“This is why we need to stay together. I'm a field agent— was, anyway.”

“What do you mean, was? Did you leave the CIA? Then who’s?—”

“I’m out of the field.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Try to focus,” he snapped. “The point is, I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”

“I was just…” She took a breath. Their conversations felt like a contact sport. “What do I say to him?”

“If he refuses to let you off the hook, feel free to show your annoyance. You need to demonstrate that you don’t know Charles Sanders is anybody but who he claims to be. Unless he threatens you, you shouldn’t let on that you’re afraid. Just end the call, and we’ll figure it out. Okay?”

At her nod—she couldn’t seem to make herself speak—he lifted her phone from the end of the table and held it out to her.

“Now?” Fear had her voice pitching too high. “Shouldn’t we…come up with a script or something?”

“The last thing you want is to sound scripted. You’ll have to wing it. The longer you make him wait, the worse it’ll be.”

She took her cell, inhaling a deep breath. This was just a conversation with Charles Sanders, mild-mannered businessman.

Not a terrorist. Not a killer.

Somehow, the lies she told herself didn’t make her feel better.