A Spy Is Born Read online

  But I got the shot.

  And I saw that pristine turquoise water, I luxuriated in it.

  "Are you ready to eat?" Jack asks me.

  "Yes, please."

  He smiles and stands, offering me a hand. Gentlemanly. He's not coming on to me. Doesn't mean he won't. But I'm prepared. I'm not going to sleep with him. Not only is he old enough to be my father, he’s also my boss. I might be from Podunk, Kansas, but I know that's a bad idea…lessons can be learned the easy way sometimes.

  The light breeze is sweet, and it plays with my hair, almost like a lover’s touch. This city loves me. I trip, falling forward a little. Jack catches me, his arm warm and tight on my waist. I'm drunker than I thought.

  "Sorry," I say, my speech slurring enough that a flicker of concern tightens my gut. I only had one glass. This is three-whiskey drunk Stacy, not one-glass-of-fine-Sancerre tipsy Angela.

  Jack's eyes are close, so glittering…like the city.

  Will he hurt me? What a strange thought. I shake my head, trying to clear the fuzziness. "Do you need to lie down?" he asks, his voice filled with concern. He's a good actor, too. Started out in front of the screen back in the late 70s. He was a real hottie then. Still is in his early 60s. But I don't want him to touch me. There is an edge to that glittering gaze, the sharp edge of hard stone.

  He does not care about me.

  You're a slut. My grandmother's seething voice sends a wave of nausea through me.

  "I think…I’m not sure what's happening," I admit, bringing a hand to my forehead. It's clammy. I'm clammy. Archie pokes his head out of the bag again, licking my forearm.

  "Here," Jack says. "There is a couch in the living room; you can lay down and take a rest. We can eat later."

  He's moving me into the house. My feet are numb, and I'm tipping side to side, the only thing keeping me moving is Jack’s hold around my waist. I wince; God, he's holding me tight. It's like the pain is the only thing holding me here. I'm on the verge of drifting away. I'm on the verge of losing something...

  He drugged me.

  The realization is a shock of cold water—like falling through a frozen pond.

  I stop…or I try. My legs are not working right. Archie gives an alarmed yelp as his bag swings wide with my unsteady movement.

  "Wait," I say…or at least I try to say. Blackness is edging my vision. The icy pond is sucking me under, the weight of my clothing dragging me down.

  Swim! Something inside me screams. It's not my voice. It's not Gramma's. It's not any voice I've ever heard before.

  I spin away, the martial arts classes I've been taking pulling muscle memory from deep inside me. Jack's hold breaks, and I flail widely, my arms pinwheeling, Archie's bag drops onto the floor. He squeaks at the impact. I keep moving, my vision a swirling mix of colors.

  I slam into something hard, and air oofs out of me. A lamp tips, the shattering of broken glass accompanying our dip into near darkness.

  My eyes are not working.

  I grasp the table that stopped me, holding on to my mind, to what's left of my vision.

  "Dammit!" Jack curses. "What are you doing, you drunk bitch? That was a very expensive lamp."

  He's grabbing me again; pain, a dangerous, burning pain, lights in my bicep at his touch. "Let go of me," I slur.

  "Shut up," he commands.

  My hand searches across the surface of the table I'm holding. My fingers find something big—a bowl, maybe. I grip it. Hot breath hits my cheek. "You need to lie down." Jack’s voice has gone soft again.

  "I'm not drunk; you put something in my drink," I think I say, but it comes out all distorted. Distorted like my vision, like the room. Shit, the whole kaleidoscope is spinning. Am I moving?

  He's dragging me.

  Then Jack picks me up, and everything tilts.

  I search for that small, familiar coal of inner strength and, closing my eyes, breathe on it, getting it to glow a bright orange—the way I did when I built the courage to come out here from Kansas. This is how I hunted down the bruises left by my grandma and covered them with makeup because I figured she was better than foster care. The devil you know. This burning coal gave me the power to march into Mary's office and tell her she would regret not taking me on as a client.

  The light from this latest blaze brightens, and with it my senses return.

  My back is moving, something rough underneath me is rubbing my skin.

  I hear Archie barking, but far away. There is hot breath on my face…the huff of desire, of sexual satisfaction. Fabric tears, the sound sharp. Air hits between my legs. My breasts are exposed—cold.

  Sharp teeth bite a nipple, and the pain throws gasoline onto the flames of the fire I’m tending.

  My eyes pry apart. That's when I feel him at my entrance. Oh no—hell no.

  Rolling, turning with all my strength, I knock him away.

  Sharp fingers in my hair pull me back. Jack’s eyes are right above mine. They are no longer those Caribbean depths—now they are the shallow, dangerous shores of the Pacific, roiled and dark, with flecks of white swirling.

  His lips crush onto mine, stealing my breath, but not my strength. His tongue invades me as he tries to position himself again.

  My hands are empty. I lost whatever I was holding. But I still have my nails.

  I bring them up—these long, fake, plastic artifices of femininity. My weapons. I rake them down Jack’s cheeks, cutting through his rough stubble and digging into that famous face.

  Warm blood follows the force of my dragging fingers. The smell—that metallic tang of life force—invades me, stoking my fire. You'd think liquid would quell flame, but that's not what happens here.

  I want more. I want to unleash all his blood.

  Jake Axelrod is going to pay.

  He cries out, his mouth leaving mine, and pulls away. I blink, struggling to focus. I’m lying on a rug on the floor of a room, the ceiling high above me. I'm naked.

  I can't let him get away, because he will come back.

  This isn't going to end well for either of us.

  He chose the wrong country bumpkin.

  I am more than he knows. I built my own damn pyre of strength. He can take nothing from me.

  I roll onto my side. Jack is pressed against the side of a couch. He’s not wearing any pants. One hand holds an injured cheek. "You stupid bitch," he says. His eyes land on me. "You fucking slut."

  I don't try to make my mouth work. I can’t waste the fire on words. I need to burn him down.

  Forcing myself onto my hands and knees, I keep an eye on Jack, refusing to lose consciousness again. Refusing to lose sight of him.

  Jack is staring at his blood streaked hand. He can’t believe what I did.

  I let my eyes track the rest of the room. We are in the living room I passed through to get to the patio. The one the kindly housekeeper led me through. Where is she?

  A shiver brings goosebumps over my bare flesh. She knows. She knew. This is what he does. I’m not the first.

  I won't be the last.

  His eyes find mine, and a spark leaps into his gaze. He's got his own fire. And the blood on his hand is like kerosene.

  Jack launches at me, bowling us both over, knocking into another table hard enough to tip the lamp on it, rolling the thing onto the floor, breaking the bulb and sinking us into near-darkness.

  The only light left comes from the city outside and the fires burning in each of us.

  I taste the smoke of our contradicting desires, feel the flame of our wills, the soft linen of his shirt and the rough stubble of his beard as we struggle.

  Wriggling, slithering, inelegant-but-effective movements free me from his clenches. Fingers tight on my ankle, he drags me back under him. My fists flail, connecting with his jaw, sticky blood coating my knuckles. He doesn’t cry out in pain but makes this weird grunt. Not sexual satisfaction, but close.

  I kick out, or try, but he’s on top of me again. I struggle, my back burning against
the carpet.

  I inhale a sharp breath as a shard of something cuts me, warm blood blooming between me and the rug.

  I have to get out from under him.

  His fingers grab at my wrists, and weight bears down on my stomach, making it hard to breathe. He’s got my left hand. I kick harder, desperate now. Really waking up, all this movement throwing off the shroud of the drug he put in my drink.

  Lucid thought beckons, almost in reach.

  I stretch out mentally, grasping for clarity, but fall back onto instinct as the drug crowds my thoughts into the hazy, smoke-filled space of my subconscious, where my fire burns.

  Strength infuses my limbs, and I lash out, desperate to be on the offense.

  I’m not subtle, or gentle. I’m not some little girl. No way! A primal scream rips from my throat, and he is stilled by it. By my power.

  Using his momentary surprise, I kick my way out from under him. He falls back into shadows, and I scramble to my feet, still facing him.

  He rises slowly as I back up, my butt hitting another couch. My hand grasps it, and I move along its solid back. He’s blocking the way forward.

  I risk a glance over my shoulder. The fireplace is to my right, the patio doors a straight shot down the wall and behind another couch.

  My vision jitters as I bring it back to him. He shatters into a kaleidoscope of Jacks, all moving toward me with the slow, steady pace of a man who thinks he’s won.

  He has won.

  His whole life.

  A shudder shakes me, my stomach cramping on emptiness and fear.

  My hand leads me along the edge of the couch. Archie’s barking starts up again as I reach the end of it.

  Where is he?

  I’m going to have to run, but I don’t know if my legs can hold me.

  I turn and launch myself from the steady support of the couch, flying forward, ungainly and sloppy. My bare feet touch the cold marble of the hearth. I’m falling forward. My hands fly out, grasping the edge of the mantel.

  It's cold and smooth, slippery against my palms—slick with sweat and fear. I grip the mantel, dragging myself along it.

  The gold of the Oscar statues twinkles in the low light. Four stoic forms, all lined up—immune to the horror show playing out in front of them.

  Fingers dig into my hair, grasping a chunk of it, and rip back my head. I move with the pain for a moment but then lurch forward, trying to twist away, gripping the mantel even harder. Jack grunts.

  I grasp the closest Oscar. It’s cold and solid and heavy.

  Jack's arm comes around my bare waist, the softness of his shirt in contrast with the roughness of his hold. He drags me back, and we fall together onto a couch, me on top. My legs are spread, his arm under my breasts, and hot breath on my neck. A swipe of his tongue against my flushed skin turns me wild with rage, with fear, with every instinct out there. They all flare, the perfect fuel for my flame.

  "No!" I yell. And it comes out clear. Unmistakable.

  Jack thrusts his hips up, the hard line of him rubbing against my bare ass, wriggling to get in. A mind of its own. A member apart.

  I thrash, the statue in my hand landing against Jack’s shoulder, loosening his grip on my middle. Surging forward, I fly onto the coffee table, pushing big, heavy books off its polished glass surface onto the floor.

  I thought that rug looked so soft when I came through here earlier—didn't know how much it could burn.

  Weight lands on my back, pressing me into the table, and—oh my God! No, no, no—he has me down. He's trying to…I twist hard, bringing the statue up and around with all my strength. It connects with his temple, the sound a sickening thunk. A disgusting cracking. I just broke something.

  He falls away, limp. My heaving breath is the only sound in the room.

  I scramble away, pulling myself up onto a nearby chair. Gray light filters in through the tall patio doors. Scanning the room, I see one of my shoes in the open doorway of the patio. Where are my clothes? They must be behind the couch.

  Jack isn’t moving.

  Is he dead?

  I can’t look. I need to leave. The thought is sluggish, fighting through the loud rushing of blood in my ears and the hard, terrified gallop of my heart.

  My eyes travel wildly over the couch in front of me, cushions askew, then to the mantel, where that one Oscar is missing, then down onto the coffee table. A sweaty imprint from my body mars the glass, big art books are open and crumpled on the carpeting below.

  A shudder runs over me and my stomach flips, threatening to empty.

  My eyes finally, slowly, fall onto Jack, a slumped, pants-less form on the floor. His legs and ass look so white. His pale blue shirt has gone gray in the darkness. Jack’s hair looks darker in this light…my eyes drop to my hand, to the statue still gripped there.

  Blood. There is blood on Oscar's head. My fingers grip the statue’s ankles so tightly they hurt. Throbs of pain suddenly awaken all over me. There is a bite mark on my breast, a cut on my back, bruises all over me.

  Tears blur my vision. I can't see again. A deep heave racks through me, and I double over, retching at my feet, the bile splattering my ankles, wrecking the carpet…well, the blood probably already did that.

  What is happening?

  I heave again. But there is nothing left, nothing left to release. I got it all out.

  Struggling back onto the chair, I curl around the statue, my gaze drifting back to Jack’s slumped form. He's not moving. I should check on him. A thought passes by, at first like a drifting cloud, then suddenly insistent. Jack Axelrod is dead.

  I killed him.

  Chapter Two

  Time passes. Not so much that the light changes, but enough that the drugs in my system—whatever didn't end up on the carpeting—fade, leaving me awake, alive, and fully aware of the situation.

  I've killed a man.

  He’s lying right there on the floor—his pale ass glowing in the darkness. This is not some thug in an alley who attacked me. This is a world-renowned actor and director dead in his own home. The signs of self-defense are everywhere though…

  Doesn’t matter.

  I'm over. My dreams are dead. As dead as Jack Axelrod.

  Should I have let it happen? He probably wouldn’t have killed me…the thought flitters past, firing a shot of pain through me. No. No. No. I wrap my arms around my legs and start to shake.

  I'll shake until it passes then I'll get up. I'll find my clothing. Soon, I will move.

  The sound of footsteps raises my head. I’m going to be found. I shouldn't let anyone see me like this. I try to stand, but my limbs are wooden and heavy. I nearly tip off the chair, getting a leg down just in time to prevent the tumble.

  The door to the foyer opens, throwing yellow electric light onto the twilight space I've existed in. The shaft of color does not reach us. Jack, Oscar, and I remain shrouded in shadow.

  A woman’s silhouette, wearing a knee-length dress and flat shoes, is outlined in the doorway. It’s the housekeeper, Nancy.

  She knew. She let this happen to me…and how many others?

  Nancy steps into the room, and reaches for the light switch. A chandelier glows a soft, elegant gold, casting warm light over the scene.

  Her eyes land on me, and she takes a sharp inhale. Nancy’s hand comes to her throat as her eyes widen and cheeks blaze with a furious blush of surprise and shock. She’s not breathing. Seems I have that effect on people tonight.

  I don't move or speak. Just sit here, one foot on the floor, the other up, my knee blocking some of my nudity but not all of it.

  I am naked and bruised, clutching a blood-stained Oscar statue.

  Nancy takes a tentative step forward, eyes traveling over the room. Her gaze falls on Jack, and all the blood rushes from her face. Where my bruised nakedness brought color to her skin, the site of Jack’s lifeless corpse takes it all away.

  I'm the one that’s alive. I survived. A savage pride pulses through me.

 
; I take in a stuttering breath. Then another—grateful for my lungs, my lips, my tongue, everything that keeps me breathing. Grateful for every cell that kept me alive tonight.

  Archie comes barreling into the room—so small and fluffy in this death-filled cavernous space. Jack must have tossed him into the foyer before turning his full attention on me. He jumps at the chair, trying to get up to me. His long, white body is tall enough for his paws to reach the seat, but his back legs are too short to propel him up onto it. I reach down and take him into my arms, still gripping the bloody statue.

  I should put it down. But my fingers won't release. I refuse to let down all my defenses.

  Archie licks my face, and I hold him tight. He settles into my arms, whimpering softly.

  Nancy approaches Jack's body and stands over it for a moment before crouching down, her skirt hitting the carpet as she leans forward, reaching for his neck, searching for a pulse.

  It only takes a moment to find that there is no life there. She could probably tell just from looking. He's a husk. Just a bag of skin and bones. The light and life are gone.

  Nancy turns to me. Her eyes are the soft brown of a cow, red-rimmed with the emotions of a human.

  "He's dead," she whispers.

  I nod. "I know."

  "We have to call someone."

  "Who?"

  "The police?"

  "Okay."

  "Are you okay?" she asks, standing and approaching, her eyes running over me. I shake my head. She turns back to the couch and grabs a throw that lies rumpled within the pillows. Nancy holds it out to me. When I don't move, she takes a tentative step closer. She licks her lips, clearly nervous. Is she afraid of me?

  Nancy holds the blanket open and, leaning down, wraps it around my shoulders without letting her skin touch mine. The blanket is soft, so soft. My eyes blink closed, and when I open them she's stepped back again. "I'll go call the police."

  I don't answer. I just sit there under that soft blanket, my dog in my arms, Oscar in my grip, and wait for the next person to find me. There is no point in moving. I survived, but I’m as over as Jack.