Page 9

CHAPTER NINE

T en minutes after she’d ended the call with Ghazi, Alyssa dragged her suitcase out of her bedroom to the door.

It took all her energy not to let her fear show. But she was terrified enough that she thought about calling her father.

Dad would never let her walk into danger. He’d find a way to get her out of this, whatever this was.

But Callan hadn’t suggested bringing her dad in, and Michael had warned against it, which she still didn’t understand.

And frankly, Dad had never seen her as anything but a nuisance. The last thing she wanted was to reinforce his negative impression of her. Not only was she in trouble, it was trouble of her own making, working for a terrorist.

What kind of fool got herself into a situation like this?

If things got out of hand, if she started to feel like she was in over her head, then she’d reach out to her father. Until then, she’d go along with Callan’s plan. Not that she knew much about it. Get information for his boss at the CIA. Malcolm, he’d said. What information, and how she was supposed to get it, she had zero idea.

Just like she didn’t know what information Ghazi wanted from her.

She felt like she was walking through a gray mist. Nothing was clear. Nothing was certain. And when she tried to understand, the mist just slipped through her fingers.

She hated this.

When she neared Callan’s closed door, she heard his voice, but his words were low and muffled.

She moved to the living area and perched on a chair, opening her phone to check her email.

“I’m doing my best.”

That came through loud and clear, sounding both angry and defensive.

His door swung open. He rolled out a suitcase he must’ve gotten from his apartment the night before and left it next to hers. When he turned and saw Alyssa, he attempted a smile, but it was tight. Still talking into his phone, he said, “Listen—” And then was quiet as he stepped into his room. He didn’t close the door this time. “I hear what you’re saying, and if I could…” Silence, then, “Yes, I would. I’m trying.”

Alyssa moved into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water, mostly to give Callan his space.

The rest of his conversation was muffled. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway. “Sorry about that.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yup. You ready?”

So…no explanation for the phone call, not that it was any of her business. She twisted the cap back onto her water bottle, shoved it in her laptop bag, and slipped on her jacket. “Let’s go.”

Pulling her suitcase, she led the way to the elevator.

She felt safe here at the Rooming House. Out there, she’d be exposed and vulnerable. If not for Callan’s presence beside her, she wouldn’t have the courage to leave.

She stopped at the counter in the lobby, thanked Jonathan and returned their keys, then joined Callan at the door.

His eyebrows lowered. “You okay?”

“Sure. Great.”

His smirk told her he wasn’t buying it. They stepped past the doorman and into the cool April air. Though the sun was out this morning, the buildings blocked its light.

They met an Uber, despite the fact that the hotel where they’d told Ghazi to pick them up was just a few blocks away and the walk across Harvard Square would be lovely.

Callan didn’t want anyone—by that, he meant Ghazi and his men—to see them on the street with their suitcases.

The Uber driver aimed for the hotel’s front door, but Callan insisted he take them into the parking garage beneath the building. The bill he slipped the guy convinced him to go to the extra trouble.

They took the elevator up to the fourth floor, then got off, walked away, waited around the corner, and then returned to the elevator.

Inside, Callan pressed the Down button.

This whole thing was weird, but she understood. He wanted them to be seen getting off the elevator from above floors. Maybe there were floor numbers above the first-floor elevator doors that would show where the car had come from.

Seemed a little paranoid, considering they still had an hour and a half before Ghazi’s man was supposed to pick them up, but Callan knew what he was doing.

The lobby was spacious and grand with high ceilings, dark woodwork, and multiple little seating areas. It teemed with people coming and going, some working at desks along one edge, others sipping coffee in a little café on the opposite side.

Callan marched across the room like he knew exactly where he was going. He left his suitcase against the wall outside the coffee shop. “What do you want?”

“Uh…I’m not?—”

He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “We’re putting on a show, Alyssa. Could you play along?”

It would be a lot easier if he’d give her a script or at least a hint as to what her lines were supposed to be. “Whatever you think, dear.”

He grinned. “Stay with our stuff. Be right back.”

She leaned against the wall and scanned the space, looking for…she wasn’t sure what. Enemies. Terrorists. Spies.

All she saw were families and businesspeople and probably parents whose kids attended Harvard or MIT.

Feeling exposed and off balance, she took out her phone and scanned her emails again. One message had come in from a client asking her to do a job for him. She replied and asked him to send her the details, that she’d be back in her office by Monday.

Was that wishful thinking?

Would she still be alive in four days? Would she be out of this…whatever it was?

Warmth beside her, then Callan’s voice in her ear. “You ready, Paris?”

There was that nickname again. But she didn’t hate how it sounded on his lips. Or how his breath felt against her neck.

She had no idea how she was going to pull this off. Pretend to work for Ghazi while gathering information, and all of that while faking an engagement to this man, who somehow made her skin tingle and her insides tremble. And infuriated her at the same time.

It was too much.

How had she ever wanted to be a spy? This was insane. Like taking the stage in front of a roomful of critics and knowing that if you forgot your lines, you’d probably end up dead.

What in the world was she doing?

* * *

“I can pull your suitcase.” Alyssa stopped Callan from trying to carry two coffee cups and a sack in one hand. When he gave her a go-ahead nod, she gripped the handle. “Where are we going?”

“Is that coat warm enough?”

“For what?”

He started across the lobby, and she walked beside him down a corridor that led to meeting rooms on one side.

He stopped at a glass door leading to a little courtyard with a large window between it and the lobby. The other three sides were brick. Planters overflowed with spring flowers and greenery, and a little fountain bubbled into a small pond in the center.

His eyebrows hiked, a question.

“It’s fine.”

The door closed behind them, silencing a low hum of the building that she hadn’t noticed until it was gone. Aside from the occasional rumble of a particularly loud vehicle on the street behind the walls, it was quiet out here. Peaceful. “This is nice.”

“Will you be warm enough?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Good.” He moved deeper into the space, passing the pond filled with bright orange fish swimming in circles around their tiny home. “I wanted us to be like kids in the fifties.” She was still trying to figure out what he meant, when he added, “You know, seen but not heard.” He stopped near a loveseat in front of the lobby windows. “This okay?”

She sat, her back to the glass.

He settled beside her—a little too close. She started to get up and move to an adjacent chair, but he gripped her hand, holding her in place. “We’re in love, Paris. Don’t leave me.”

“Ghazi isn’t even here yet.”

“How do you know?”

Oh. Right.

For all they knew, he’d sent men to stake the place out, which explained the elevator dance and the food she certainly didn’t need.

He set the coffee cups on the table, sliding one in front of her, then tore the sack and laid it flat. He’d bought an everything bagel with cream cheese and a giant cinnamon roll. “Help yourself.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Humor me.” Grinning, he bit a huge hunk of the pastry as if he hadn’t just scarfed down two entire breakfasts a couple of hours before.

She separated the top half of the bagel and tore off a tiny portion. “Now what?”

“We talk until Ghazi gets here. We need to be prepared for questions.”

“I thought you liked to wing it.”

“I thought you didn’t.”

Fair point.

“My name is Caleb Thompson. I sell computer hardware.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

He must’ve picked up her sarcasm because he smiled. “If you’re asked, say you don’t know much about my work because I don’t talk about it, but it takes me away a lot, and I do well financially. You should also know I have one sister, and my parents are still alive and married.”

“Have I met your parents?”

“Stick as close to the truth as you can. You haven’t met them yet, but we’re planning to tell both our families about our engagement this weekend. That gives us a hard deadline. We’ll need to leave Charles’s place by tomorrow night.”

It was Thursday, so that made sense. But… “Can’t we make it tonight, since it’s all fiction?”

“Malcolm wants us to gather as much intel as we can, and we want to have time to compare notes, which we might not while you’re working.”

He set the cinnamon roll down—he’d managed to eat half of it already—and sipped his coffee. He was the picture of casual. “I’ll need to know what he’s asking you to do before you can complete the task. Then, I’ll communicate with Malcolm, and we can make a plan about how to handle it.”

“You think Ghazi will let you make calls? I mean, what do you think this is going to be like?” She tried to imagine what they’d be walking into, but it was all too nebulous. She’d insisted Callan come with her, but now she wasn’t so sure this was a great idea. What if Ghazi hurt him? Or killed him?

What if she was walking into a trap that would destroy them both?

Callan’s arm slid around her shoulders, and he urged her against his side. “It’s okay, Paris. Don’t worry.”

How did he read her mind like that? It was eerie. And irritating.

“I have no idea what it’s going to look like,” he said, “but I’m prepared. I’ve got it under control.”

“How, how do you?—?”

“You need to trust me.” He backed away enough to peer down at her. His nearness was disconcerting, making her feel both protected and uncomfortable.

Her emotions were all over the place. How could she possibly do this?

“What’s important right now,” he continued, “is that we get our story straight.”

Right. Of course. She flipped back through the conversation and remembered… “My grandparents’ anniversary party is Saturday afternoon. Sixty-five years. Their anniversary isn’t until Monday, but I guess Dad has to be in DC that day.” Typical, Dad putting work before family. “Everyone will attend, and of course I’m expected to be there. We could announce the engagement there. Theoretically.”

“In Shadow Cove?”

She was surprised he remembered where she was from. “Right. The party is at Dad’s country club.”

“Okay, perfect. So we have to leave Charles’s house Friday afternoon. We’re going to my parents’ house first to tell them the news, then driving to Shadow Cove Saturday for the party, where we’ll make an announcement. That’s the plan, and we can’t get out of it.”

“Okay. And where do your parents live?”

“They still live in the house I grew up in. You’ve never been there, but I’ve told you about it. It’s an old property on a pond in central Maine. I don’t want you to share any more details than that.”

She should’ve remembered Callan was from Maine. There hadn’t been a lot of students from Maine in their class at Boston College.

“Is that all fiction? Where do they really live?”

“We’re sticking close to the truth. That’s where my parents really live, and my sister lives nearby.”

“Aren’t you worried Ghazi will be able to find your family, though?”

“Charles Sanders. That’s his name.”

“I know that. I’m just saying… That information is pretty detailed. It’s not like central Maine is densely populated.”

“Thompson is one of the most common last names in the state. I chose my alias carefully. Don’t worry about any of that.”

“Oh. I see. And your sister?”

“Hannah. She’s two years younger than I am, and she lives in Augusta. You’ve never met her, but you will this weekend. You’re going to like her.”

Hannah. Two years younger. “Got it. What do your parents do?”

“They’re both retired, and they like to travel. You shouldn’t need to know any more than that. I doubt any of this will come up but, just in case, it’s good to know enough to make conversation. How about your family?”

“I’m the oldest of five, all girls. The first four of us are all a little over a year apart. So it’s me, then Brooklynn, Cecelia—we call her Cici—and Delaney. Kenzie is the baby.”

His eyebrows hiked. “Wait. Alyssa, Brooklynn, Cecelia, Delaney. ABCD, and then…Kenzie?”

Alyssa couldn’t help her surprise, or the strange wave of pleasure she figured showed in her smile. “Nobody notices that.”

He shrugged. “I’m observant. Why the pattern change?”

“I don’t know. I think it bothers Kenzie, though. Cici used to tell her it was because she was adopted, the brat.”

He chuckled. “I bet it was fun growing up with all those sisters.”

“You can say that because you only had one. Four sisters are…a lot.”

“Are you close to them?”

“Used to be. I loved taking care of them. I miss being around kids.”

He seemed to take that in, an unreadable expression on his face, which he schooled before she could examine it further. “Why aren’t you close to your sisters anymore?”

She shrugged. “I went off to college and then moved to DC. We just grew apart. Brooklynn, Cici, and Delaney are best friends. Kenzie and I are on the outside of their little…clique, and have been for years.”

“Are you and Kenzie close?”

“We don’t have a lot in common, and we’re so far apart in age.”

Callan worked on his cinnamon roll, and she took another bite of the bagel and sipped her coffee, which warmed her on the inside. With her jacket on, it wasn’t that cold out—maybe low fifties—but she was getting chilled sitting on the hard bench.

He finished the pastry and wiped his hands on a napkin. “What do we do for fun?”

“You probably need to tell me. I don’t have a lot of hobbies.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just…don’t. I work a lot. When I’m not working, I’m usually thinking about work. I like to read, sometimes. But that’s not exactly a couple’s activity.”

“Do you exercise? Play racquetball or pickleball?”

“I’ll take up pickleball when I turn fifty.”

“It’s actually really fun.” He chuckled. “I know this because my parents play.”

“Of course they do.” Though she had no idea what his parents looked like, she imagined a happy couple, laughing together, playing doubles pickleball—was that a thing?—and beating all the competition.

So different from her own parents.

Dad golfed. Mom decorated and shopped and had lunch with her daughters.

Dad consulted with government agencies and defense contractors.

Mom volunteered on committees and planned galas.

Rarely did they do anything together. When they did, usually one of them had to talk the other into doing it.

Not exactly a marriage made in heaven. Nothing like her aunt and uncle. Peggy and Roger made marriage look easy.

“You must do something for fun,” Callan prompted. “What do you love? Or what did you love as a kid?”

“I used to volunteer in the children’s ministry at church. I should probably do that again.”

He shuddered. “That’s not something we do together. Kids hate me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

An expression crossed his features, almost…wounded, though that didn’t make sense.

She groped for a subject change, not wanting to cause him pain.

And there was a new experience. She’d imagined causing him pain for four years of college. She’d also imagined kissing him.

She needed to get both of those ideas out of her head.

“I walk every morning before work,” she said, “and sometimes after work, too, just to get me out of the apartment. What are your hobbies?”

“Rock climbing, hiking, fishing, skiing, boating.”

“Oh, gosh. You’re one of those people who love the outdoors.”

“You mean planet Earth? Guilty. As your fiancé, I’ll need to get you interested in the things I love. We can do them together.”

“Thank God this is all fake.”

He bumped her shoulder. “Aw, Paris, you’re gonna love rock climbing.”

“I think you should lose the nickname.”

By the utter delight in his eyes, he was about to come up with some excuse as to why he couldn’t or wouldn’t, but the door to their private oasis opened, and a woman stepped out. Her hair was in a ponytail, and her makeup was overdone, from the too-thick eyeliner to the too-red lipstick. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt and a jacket. And a wide smile.

What were the chances?

Alyssa stifled a groan as the woman homed in on her.

“I thought that was you!” She hurried across the space, arms open wide. “I saw you through the window, and even from behind, I could tell.”

Alyssa stood and stepped around the coffee table to hug her former schoolmate, wanting to pull away long before the intruder let her go.

Finally, she did, stepping back. “It’s so good to see you.” She glanced at Callan. “I’m in town for a conference. Don’t you live nearby? What are you doing at a hotel?”

“It’s a long story.” Alyssa said. “Frannie, this is?—”

“Caleb,” he supplied, sticking out his hand.

They were keeping up their ruse. “Frannie and I went to school together,” Alyssa explained. “She and Brooklyn were in the same class.”

He shook her hand, then slipped his arm around Alyssa’s waist. “Nice to meet you, Frannie. I’ve hardly met any of Alyssa’s friends from Shadow Cove. It’s a pleasure.”

The woman’s eyes popped wide. “Uh… Okay. Are you two, um…?” Her gaze flicked between them.

“We’re engaged.” He winked. “But it’s a secret. We haven’t told our families yet.”

What was he doing? They couldn’t tell Frannie their story.

Telephone, telegraph—tell Frannie.

Her eyes widened as she focused on Alyssa. “Brooklynn didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone.”

“I didn’t realize you and my sister kept in touch.”

“Oh, yeah. We talk a lot.”

Great. Seemed Frannie kept in better contact with Brooklynn than Alyssa did. “I haven’t told her or anyone about Caleb yet.”

“We’ve kept it on the down low,” Callan added. “I travel so much, and she’s always busy and I guess”—he squeezed her closer to him—“we just haven’t wanted to share each other.”

Frannie’s expression morphed from concerned to smitten. “Aw, that’s so sweet. I’m just positive Brooklynn will be thrilled when she hears.”

Callan leaned in. “Keep our secret for us, would you? I’m guessing she wouldn’t be thrilled to hear about it from you instead of from her own sister.” He shot Alyssa a thin smile. “I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut, but I’m so ready to start telling people. Aren’t you, Paris?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“ Paris ?” The woman repeated the stupid nickname, looking between them. “Is that where you met?”

He laughed. “Just a little private joke.”

“Ooh, my favorite kind.” Frannie eyed one of the chairs in their seating area, clearly waiting to be invited to join them.

Alyssa was trying to figure out how to get rid of her when her phone rang.

She pulled it from her coat pocket. She didn’t recognize the number but figured she’d better answer anyway. Maybe Frannie would get the hint. “Alyssa Wright.”

“This is your driver,” a man said. “I am in the lobby whenever you’re ready.”

She gripped Callan’s arm and squeezed. “We’re on our way.”

His pleased expression faded.

Alyssa ended the call. “That’s our ride, Frannie. But it was good to see you.” She gave her a quick hug while Callan tossed their trash in a can near the door.

Frannie was talking, all let’s get together and it was so good to catch up.

Not that Alyssa was eager to walk into a terrorist’s lair, but at least she could escape this torture.

Finally, Callan pulled their suitcases back into the corridor, and she walked side by side with him toward the lobby.

“He’s early,” Alyssa said.

Callan nodded.

“We didn’t cover how we met or?—”

“Shh.” He wrapped the same arm around her waist again, whispering. “Your friend is ten paces behind us.”

Alyssa stifled the urge to look. How did he know? He hadn’t turned around.

“We met at a business event in the city,” Callan whispered. “Caleb went to community college. If they start to ask questions, get annoyed. Our past is none of Charles’s business. Tell him you’re busy. Tell him you don’t have time to chitchat, that you’re on a deadline.”

She could do that.

They turned the corner and crossed the lobby toward the registrations and concierge desks.

A man stood near the window that looked out at the courtyard, hands fisted, eyes tracking them. He’d been watching, and he didn’t mind them knowing it.

He had blond hair and hazel eyes and a protruding jaw. His biceps looked thicker than her thighs. He wore an ill-fitting suit that didn’t suit him at all. He looked nothing like his slight and unassuming boss. Of course, Ghazi—Charles—wasn’t what he seemed. Not even close.

The driver stepped toward them. “Ms. Wright?”

“That’s me.”

He sent a glare at Callan.

Caleb. Not Callan.

“This way.” He turned and led them to the doors and outside.

It was happening too fast, and she wasn’t ready.

Before she could panic, the driver had stowed their bags and was demanding their phones. “Mr. Sanders insisted. He would prefer that his location remain secret.”

Callan protested, but when the man told him his choices—give me your phone or stay here—he relented.

Alyssa was too afraid to refuse, handing her cell over without a word of complaint.

They slid into the backseat of a black Mercedes parked at the curb.

And then, the driver pulled away from the hotel.

And they left all safety behind.