A Spy Is Born Page 4

  "I am doing well," I remind him. My gut shakes at the lie. Standing in a dead man's kitchen with his blood rimming my nails, wearing a pair of borrowed scrubs, could hardly be considered doing well.

  Temperance nods slowly. "What do you want?"

  The question throws me off; I wasn't thinking about what I wanted, just about protecting myself. About not getting sucked into a vortex. "I—" Swallowing, I keep talking just to avoid creating a silence that exposes my confusion. “I want to understand more clearly what you're offering. I don't want to follow you into the darkness."

  He cocks his head. "That's dramatic."

  I cock a hip and raise one brow. "I'm an actor."

  He lets out a sharp laugh. Real or fake? I can’t tell. "Let me drive you home."

  "Is that me agreeing to work with you?"

  "This is done," he tells me. "You're going to work for me. For your country. Because we need you. Consider yourself drafted. But I don't want our relationship to be adversarial. You'll see that I can be very helpful to you. This loss…it will be temporary. I'll get you plenty of work." A grin slips across his face at the scent of his own power. "I'm going to make you a star."

  I jut my chin up, holding Archie tighter. "I am a star."

  He grins. "Thatta girl."

  I shake my head. "You condescending prick. I want a lawyer. Where is my phone?” I'll call Mary. She must have someone for things just like this. I am not the first actor to end up in legal trouble. One of Mary’s other clients recently got on the expressway going the wrong direction, and she's not in jail. I turn around, scanning the kitchen, trying to remember where I last saw my bag. The patio.

  "You can't call anyone." Temperance’s voice remains even.

  "Am I your prisoner? If so, I get a phone call."

  "That's not how this works." I look back over at him. He's standing very still, that chest just going and going. Nothing to stop it. "Your country needs you."

  "For what, exactly? I don't understand what you're offering. It's like you want me to take a role without reading the script. How do I know there isn't full frontal on page sixty-two?"

  He lets out a short laugh. "I can't promise what the future holds. What did Jack promise you?"

  "I knew who he was. I had read the script and I knew the role. I have no idea who you are; you won't even tell me who you work for. And I have no idea what you expect me to do.”

  "Jack lied about who he was. I won't lie to you." The oath sounds real, but I know how to make anything sound real. His words mean nothing.

  "I have no reason to believe you."

  "You have no choice." The first stirrings of anger edge his voice.

  A smile crosses my face that is not my own—my sassy character has taken over. I don't even need to think about her now. She is me—I am gone.

  "There is always a choice." My accent has even gone a little Southern. I back away from him, heading around the table, toward the swinging door that leads into the dining room. From there I can get back to the patio, grab my bag, and call Mary.

  Temperance does not try to stop me. Cold tile chills my bare feet, but I move calmly, slowly, like what Beyoncé proclaimed is real…I move as if girls run the world.

  Pushing through the swinging door, I run right into a uniformed officer. He's shorter than Temperance but still a lot bigger than me. "Excuse me," I say, going to move around him, but he steps with me, blocking my path.

  "Sorry, I can't let you leave."

  I raise my chin, that old fallback. I'm not afraid of you. Let me pass. "I want my phone call."

  He shakes his head. "You'll have to talk to the detective about that," he says. "We are still working in here."

  "Fine," I nod. "I'll wait." Turning around, I return to the kitchen. Temperance is where I left him.

  "You don't want to go downtown." He shakes his head. "Mug shots are the press’s dream come true."

  "Martin Luther King, Jr.'s mug shot was a badge of honor. I'll take the punishment society deals me."

  "I can tell you what punishment society will deal you. You’ll be a tabloid sensation for months to come, crowding the Kardashians and their ilk off the covers of all those magazines. An object of sympathy perhaps, but too identified with the gaudy events of this evening to ever resume a respectable acting career."

  A shiver runs over me at his words. Suddenly the cool tile is a frozen block, the thin scrubs porous. I stand on an iceberg deep in the arctic. I am alone and in danger. Temperance is a passing boat, a boat that’s on fire. Leap into the raging flames or stay on the ice?

  Temperance takes a step toward me, his eyes warm in that stony face. I am your friend, they say.

  "I promise you, I swear"—he looks up at the ceiling, toward the heavens—"I will take care of you." His eyes meet mine. There is that sincerity again, so hard to fake unless you know how.

  "I want to talk to Mary, my agent," I insist.

  "I can't let you do that. You can't tell anyone about me or about what happened here tonight."

  "Secrets are the weights which sink us."

  He steps closer. There are only a few feet between us now. Archie lets out a soft snore, exhausted from the evening’s excitement. The sound reminds my own body of its need for sleep, and its as if a lead blanket is thrown over my shoulders. I grit my teeth to keep from slumping under the weight.

  "You're sitting at the bottom of the ocean, and you’re worrying about sinking?" Temperance asks.

  "You can always sink lower."

  "Not if you grab the life raft I'm throwing you."

  "It might be an anchor."

  "It's not."

  "I can't trust you." I stick my chin out again, but my exhaustion doesn't let it go very high. The weight of the water above me is so heavy.

  Temperance’s lips remain firm. "I admire your fortitude in this moment. But I want you to understand that I will take care of you. I will take care of everything. You will get roles, and you will be safe."

  "My grandmother warned me about men who promised me the world."

  "Is that what Jack did?"

  I shake my head. "He offered me a drink." I take a deep breath. "You’re asking me to follow you blindly."

  "I'm not asking." His voice is low—gentle—but his meaning is clear. You have no choice. "I'll take you home now; you can sleep. We can talk in the morning. If you don't want to work with me—don't want to serve your country—then we can discuss that once the sun is up.”

  I glance toward the windows. They reflect the kitchen back to me—a clean, orderly space. "What time is it?"

  "Three o'clock."

  "I'm supposed to be on set at 7:30 a.m."

  "You don't want to be late." Temperance doesn't move to touch me, but I can almost sense his hand on my elbow. He's smart not to take it. I'd jerk away. His stillness is a much more powerful motivator.

  And he's right; I don't want to be late. But I also don't want Jack to be dead. I don’t want his blood on my hands and the mess that’s sure to follow.

  "You won’t take no for an answer?” My gaze is still stuck on the kitchen window reflecting back the glistening counters.

  "You are better off that I don't. You deserve better than what Jack did to you, better than what this evening would turn into without my interference."

  "Do I?" My eyes are drawn to his. "How would you know?"

  Those dark, jewel eyes hold me. "I know a lot about you. That's part of my job."

  "But you won't tell me what your job actually is?"

  "I'm an actor like you. Except I perform for the safety of our nation." The way he says it…well…it sounds noble. Like what he does matters. "Join me." He offers his hand, palm up, exposing pale skin with dark creases. I stare down at it.

  I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, the wind rushing in my ears. The arctic ice is no longer underfoot, the burning ship vanished. It is just me on the precipice and this offer of salvation…this open palm.

  I shift Archie into one arm, and
he wakes, snuffling closer, as I reach out and accept Temperance's hand: warm and solid, rough with hard work.

  Temperance leads me out past the uniformed officer, and where there should be throngs of cops, there is just Maria and the photographer, chatting in the entranceway. The front door is open, the driveway shrouded in darkness, the lights of the city glittering beyond it. We are up so high above it all.

  I glance toward the living room, catching a glimpse of a sheet sticking out from the other side of the couch. They have not moved the body.

  I don’t see Nancy anywhere. How will they keep her quiet? All these people will have a secret. It won't just be me. The burden of Jack's death lifts a little, as if someone has stepped under it, shouldering a small amount. While this secret leaves me exposed, it also shields me. That’s what shared secrets do.

  Temperance, still holding my hand, leads me through the open door and down those old Hollywood steps to where a black SUV waits. Not an amped-up reporter or photographer in sight. A man behind the wheel gets out to open the back door for us.

  He does not speak and neither does Temperance, who motions for me to get in first. I stare into the backseat, black leather lit by the dome light. I glance behind me to the mansion. My heart gives a powerful thump. I survived.

  Climbing into the SUV, I settle into the seat. Temperance gets in next to me. My eyes burn with unshed tears, but I force them away. The perfect topiaries blur as we pull down the drive.

  This isn't what I planned. This isn't what I want. But it is what’s happening.

  A small spark of pride ignites. I'm joining something larger. Like when acting in a play—the way you lean on the actors around you and submerge your ego into something larger than yourself.

  Now I'll be doing that again. Joining with others to keep our nation safe. The nation that gave my grandmother a home. That gave her freedom when Nazis wanted to exterminate our people—Roma, a nomadic people with no claim on any nation.

  A laugh bubbles but does not burst. I'll be serving a nation rather than just roaming through it. My gut tightens with worry and a fear passed down through my DNA. Putting down roots leads to death.

  Chapter Four

  Sunlight streaming through my windows wakes me before my alarm has a chance to sound. I blink against it. I didn't close my blinds last night. That's strange.

  Rolling over, I feel pain in all sorts of places, and the events of last night crash back into my consciousness like a bad dream.

  Nausea swirls, and I lean over the edge of my bed, gripping the mattress. Please don’t puke. Taking deep breaths, the spinning slows, and reality settles into place around me.

  I am a killer.

  And an asset of the US government.

  This is not a role I’m playing.

  This is my life.

  But I have to pretend to be the woman I was yesterday.

  Pushing myself into a seated position, I slide out from under the covers and set my feet onto the carpeted floor. The soft plush sends a new shiver of disgust through me. Will carpet ever feel good to me again?

  Light-headed, spots dancing in front of me, I try to summon the strength to stand.

  When did I last eat? My salmon salad at lunch yesterday comes to mind, and bile rises again. My eyes catch on my Kindle, sitting on my bedside table next to my phone. The Kindle, my clothing, computer, cell, and the rotary phone are the only things of mine in the apartment; everything else came with the rental. I bought the phone, a classic from the 60s, when I first came to the city as a model. It’s white, with a long, curled cord and heavy base. The kind of thing James Bond would use to take out an attacker.

  How about I just crawl back under the covers and read for the rest of the day?

  Instead, I push off the bed and make it to the bathroom, gripping the door frame and taking a few deep breaths to regain myself. Glancing back at the bed, I consider climbing between the sheets again. It’s as if my Kindle is actually calling my name.

  Archie lets out a small yip, drawing my attention to his crate. "Just a minute," I say, stepping into the bathroom.

  There are two sinks set into white marble—the majesty of the space meant for two. Most mornings that second sink gives me a moment of sadness. When will I have a partner? Will I ever find love? This morning, gratitude fills me that I only have to worry about myself…and Archie.

  My gaze finds the mirror and my reflection. Crap on toast. I took a shower before collapsing into bed last night, too tired and wiped out to dry my hair. I just left it. And now there is a price to pay for that laziness. My long pitch black hair—inherited from my grandmother’s Roma roots—is a tangled mess. The contrast of my dark hair and violet eyes often gets me compared to Elizabeth Taylor.

  A flash of Jack's still body—the pale curve of his hip in the darkened room—crosses my vision, blocking out my rat’s nest of a hair do and forcing me to grab the marble counter and breathe. I need to lock that thought down and wipe that image away.

  It was just a dream, I lie to myself. No, not a lie. It. Was. Just. A. Dream. Forget it.

  Taking a deep breath, I look back at myself and firm my jaw. I have an hour and a half before I need to leave. There is no time for this weakness. This wallowing.

  I flick on the radio, tuned to the news, and grab my brush off the marble counter, beginning to work through the knots, the pull bringing tears to my eyes. Yes, that's why I'm crying. It's the pull of knots against my scalp. I'm not crying because of a stupid dream. I wouldn't do that. I'm stronger than that.

  The news anchor drones on about the upcoming election, and I concentrate on his words, using them to blot out the memories trying to surface. “Reginald Grand and Natalie Stone will debate tonight in the first contest between the two presidential candidates. A billionaire business tycoon and television personality, Mr. Grand brings no political experience to the presidency but his strong, nationalist rhetoric and hard-right politics have fired up the base…”

  Hair brushed and pulled into a tight ponytail, I pull off my pajamas and inspect the bruises I found last night. They've blossomed. Handprints on my hips, fingertips on my bicep. Turning my back to the mirror, I see the rug burn on my back, the long shallow cut that runs across one shoulder blade—darker and scabbier this morning.

  Last night in the shower it stung—burned right through my exhaustion and dragged me back onto the floor…dragged me across it.

  No.

  Just. A. Dream.

  I shake my head and try a smile, something sweet and gentle. A little tired. Up late last night, got banged up in a fender bender. No big deal. I'm fine.

  The news anchor’s voice cuts through my act. “Jack Axelrod, Oscar winning director and actor, died unexpectedly last night at his home…” A buzzing fills my ears as the fake story plays out just the way it’s supposed to. No mention of me, of our violent struggle. A heart attack. Natural causes. Tragic but not scandalous. Because last night was just a dream.

  Pulling on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, high-necked black shirt, I grab boots from my closet—ones that I'm steady in. Last night turned me off high heels for a while.

  When I open Archie's crate, he leaps out, standing up to place his small paws on my shin, just above the boots. "Good morning, cutie," I say.

  He jumps a couple of times, and I pick him up, putting him into his black leather bag with the mesh sides.

  Outside the apartment complex, I set him down in the "pet relief area" and pull my sunglasses on. It's a gorgeous LA day: high sixties, the sun blasting through the haze of the city and making everything sparkle.

  "Good morning," a deep voice says behind me, sending a chill up my spine, sending me back to that iceberg I stood on last night.

  I turn and smile at Temperance.

  He wears a baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes. He's got on mirrored sunglasses—like a cop. But he moves with an air to him, something that is different than regular police. This is not a man who follows the rules of society or enfo
rces them. This is a warrior, who wakes up each morning and battles forces unseen by most. A sorcerer or a wizard—that's how he moves, like he's got some special knowledge the rest of us don’t, like he can bend time and reality to his liking.

  Will I learn enough secrets to give me that power? A thrill brushes over me as he approaches, two cups of coffee in his hands.

  He holds one out, and I take it, smiling behind my own shades—dark brown so that no one can see my eyes. I'm a celebrity, after all.

  Temperance is wearing a short-sleeved white T-shirt, and his arms, dusted in dark hair, are glistening in the sun. The aroma of coconut wafts off him…he's wearing sunscreen. We all need protection from Mother Nature.

  I scan down, my eye catching on the waistband of his dark jeans, then continuing to his fashionable sneakers. He does not appear to have a gun on him.

  But that does not mean he is helpless. The guy looks like he could kill with his bare hands. Of course he can. He's a freaking secret agent.

  "So." Temperance sips his coffee. "How are you feeling?"

  I bring my gaze back up to his face. Hidden behind my sunglasses, I stare at myself in the reflection of his aviators. "Fine," I say. It was just a dream.

  "Good," he nods. "Ready to head into work?"

  I nod, my eyes flicking down to my watch. It's a platinum Rolex, each hour marked with a diamond—a gift from Mary when I got this role. The joy it brought me that day whispers at the back of my mind. A starring role, in a famous, respected director’s film. The arrival of my stardom. The moment I'd been working toward and dreaming of...

  "I'm leaving in a few. Just letting Archie do his business."

  "Good, the police report about the fender bender is in place; your car, with appropriate dents, is in the garage." I hadn't even thought of that. I'd left my car at Jack's house, not even considering how I’d get to the studio this morning.

  "Thank you." It comes out quiet and sincere. I'm not faking.

  In the bright sun of the morning, facing this day as the me from yesterday, with all of last night as a dream, is better than facing it as a killer.