A Spy Is Born Page 6

  I stare at his forearms as he screws the shade back into place—his shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing dark skin over taut muscle. There is something very sexy about this guy. Is it the power he exudes? All the secrets he keeps, seeping out of him in a pheromone perfume of danger and protection?

  He keeps secrets safe.

  I turn away as he climbs down from the chair, to keep myself from checking out his ass. Temperance puts the chair back under the table with a scrape of legs against tile and then starts to move toward my bedroom.

  He knows his way around my apartment. Did he put whatever that was in that light socket or did someone else? The invasion of it strikes me as I follow him. Someone is listening in on me. Or are they filming? A surge of nausea pulses at the thought.

  Temperance enters my bedroom, and I'm glad I took the time to make my bed and tidy up before heading for the premiere. He goes to my bedside lamp and flips it over, the shade tinkling against the bulb. Archie lifts his head and watches him for a moment, then nuzzles back into the blankets. Temperance pulls out another device and slips it into his pocket.

  Replacing the lamp, his gaze finally reaches mine. The golden brown is soft, almost amused. He gestures with his chin for us to move back into the living room. I go first this time, feeling him at my back, the experience sending trills of sensation up and down my spine. I'm afraid and turned on, and confused…and somehow feeling all kinds of safe. Wtf?

  Temperance points to my sneakers by the door, and I grab them, moving to the couch to put them on. He waits for me, standing, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Moments later, we are down in the garage getting into my car. He pulls out a screwdriver and leans toward my stereo. I wince as he pries the front off. It's a lease.

  Reaching behind the plastic casing, he pulls out one more device, slipping it away into his pocket with the other two.

  He then climbs out of the car. I follow, locking the doors in our wake, with a flash of lights and a beep of assurance.

  I hold my tongue as we take the elevator back up to my apartment. Temperance waves a fob over my door, and it opens. Did he take mine? No, it's in my hand, along with my car fob. Temperance holds the door for me, his eyes meeting mine again.

  Anyone can get into your apartment, his gaze warns.

  I suck my bottom lip between my teeth as I pass him. He nods toward the couch, and I sit down. Temperance holds up a hand—stay here—then leaves, closing the door behind him.

  I stay on the couch, staring at the closed door, my hands fisted by my side, chewing on my lip. Is he coming back? Am I supposed to sit here all night? Is he watching me? My eyes scan the living room. There could be devices anywhere. Were they just listening? Or also watching? And who the heck is they? Are there more?

  I'm starting to go stark raving mad when I hear the lock turn. Standing up, I hold my breath, bracing myself for whatever might come through the door. My training kicks in, and my heartbeat actually slows down. I can fight. I can kill.

  Temperance steps into the apartment and smiles when he sees me, giving a small nod of approval. I've dropped into a fighting stance without even realizing it. He closes the door. "Next time," he says, “don't stand in the middle of the room. You're better off tactically where I can't see you."

  "Are you a danger to me?" I ask. "What are those things you took out of here?"

  "TMZ." He answers my second question first, referencing one of the largest celebrity gossip sites. He strolls toward me. The collar of his white shirt is open and he looks like a businessman after hours. If businessmen spent a lot of their time at the gym and walked like they knew all the secrets of the world…which most of them think they do.

  I jut my chin up, as good a defense as any punch in my world, and narrow my eyes. “TMZ? The tabloid news site?” I ask.

  "Yes, they want dirt on you. That's a good thing. Means you've made it." He pauses on the far side of the coffee table for a moment and then looks toward my kitchen. "I'd like a glass of water."

  I'm thrown off, but my hostess instincts kick in. "Right, of course," I say, moving toward the kitchen. "Sparkling or still?"

  He smiles at me. "You worked as a waitress, right?"

  "Yeah, one of the worst of all time, I'd say. And I think my former boss would agree."

  "Still water is fine," he says, his voice is smooth and rough—how does he do that? The man should be on the screen, not behind the curtain.

  I grab a glass out of the cabinet and fill it from a bottle in the fridge, turning to hand it to him. He takes a sip, looking around the kitchen. "Nice place," he says.

  "It's a rental. That apparently you have a key to."

  "Locks are no protection," he brings his gaze back to mine, sending another thrill through me. I cross my arms over my chest. "But don't worry," he smiles. “I’m watching out for you."

  That does not make me feel better for some reason. Like having the devil watch your back for just a small price…your soul.

  "So…” I lean against the counter, hiding my concerns. "You came by to get those…what were they?"

  "Listening devices. No video. They stopped that after the last lawsuit burned GTB to the ground."

  I nodded, remembering the case—Holly Manster won a big enough settlement to shut that gossip site down after they published video footage from inside her house exposing her extramarital affair.

  "They don't ever publish the recordings from the bugs—just use them to figure out where you are going to be, who you are dating.” He raises a brow. “That kind of thing. They call them background bugs." His eyes are holding on to me, and I have to look away.

  Staring down at my sneakers I nod. "Thank you," I say.

  "You're welcome. They installed them while you were at the premiere. I didn’t want them hearing you and Julian.”

  "Is that the only reason you stopped by?" For some reason my voice comes out sounding like a jilted girlfriend. What the what? I force myself to look up at him, one professional to another.

  Temperance watches me, not answering the question. His eyes remind me of tiger stones, black and gold swirling together. But also there are flecks of green in there. "No," he finally answers. "I'm here to discuss your first assignment."

  I swallow, keeping my eyes on his. I won't look away. Won't be afraid. And yet my body is reacting, adrenaline going again, my heart rate increasing. I keep my face smooth, expressionless…this happens to me every day.

  "Okay," I answer.

  A smile tugs at his lips, and he takes a sip of water…to cover it?

  "You're going to be traveling on this press junket, for the film." I nod. "You'll be in Shanghai for two days." I nod again. "You'll be invited to a party at the American consulate."

  This is news to me, but I nod anyway.

  "A Russian oligarch will also be there. Vladimir Petrov. He has a crush on you." I raise one brow. "Don't worry," Temperance smiles. "I'm not asking you to do anything untoward." Oh, because spying is so very toward. "You just need to slip something into his drink."

  Both brows shoot up this time. "Drug him?"

  Temperance nods slowly, gauging my reaction. "You can imagine that I would have a problem with that, can't you?"

  "You've had a bad experience with being drugged. I get it.”

  "You get it?” Sarcasm drips off each word. Really, big, strong guy? You get what it's like to be drugged and helpless?

  "Vladimir is a bad man."

  I let out a jaded laugh. "A bad man. What am I? A toddler?"

  "You're an asset." The way he says it makes my stomach drop. I’m not a person. I'm a thing…a thing that has an assigned value. Like a stock or a bond. I swallow and narrow my eyes again. I am a queen. Temperance smiles back… he is a wizard. "I understand your hesitation, but you need to trust me."

  "Trust you?”

  "Yes." He drops the word like it's a bond, a chain with a lock on it. Something sturdy. Something that will hold.

  I want to argue. Somehow, I want to gra
sp some control over this thing. But all I can do is take hold of the chain and hope it doesn't break.

  Chapter Six

  Shanghai glitters brighter than LA.

  It's the seventh stop on our Asia tour, and by the time our flight is circling the city, I'm exhausted and nervous as a turkey on Thanksgiving.

  Over the last few weeks I've fought for sleep, tossing and turning, Jack's corpse haunting me and Temperance's eyes watching me. I’ve missed Archie, who’s staying with Mary while I travel.

  Julian sits next to me, reading a newspaper, not staring out the window like a country bumpkin. But he's missing the spires and peaks of the skyscrapers thrusting up toward us, the lights of the city shining into the blackness of night. It's beautiful.

  It's where I'm expected to prove my value as an asset.

  What would happen if I just didn't do it? That question has flittered through my mind a million times. And there is no answer.

  Besides, I made an agreement. I agreed to the transformation of that night in LA from bleak reality to a bad dream for this…for control over me…for the chain with its sturdy lock that I carry with me now.

  Someone will meet me in Shanghai to give me the pills—I'm assuming they are pills—to drop into Vladimir's drink.

  I Googled him. The guy is richer than Midas and more corrupt than Judas. In his early fifties with small, pale blue eyes and a low furrowed brow, Vlad looks like a retired bodybuilder: tall with bulging muscles, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. His hands are like meat cleavers—blunt and big. There are lots of pictures of him at galas, and he looks terrible in a suit—all bunched up and forced into it.

  What was I going to do to him?

  "You okay?" Julian asks, leaning over me. I turn to him. The skin around his blue eyes is wrinkled with concern.

  "Yeah." I nod.

  He glances down at my hands, and I follow his gaze; they are gripping each other as if one is trying to pull the other up from a cliff. I consciously unclasp them and give him a smile. "I'm just tired."

  Julian nods, his hair flopping forward. He's growing it out for his next role—it looks roguish and handsome. I’ve avoided any more dates with him—I can’t start a relationship while living a double life. Things are complicated enough.

  Julian hasn’t pushed, though he continues to show me attention and find ways to touch me that I can’t seem to hate. “I get that," Julian says with a sigh. "These things are murder."

  I swallow and force a smile. Holy crap, what if I'm slipping Vlad poison? Not just something to knock him out but something to actually kill him.

  Julian's gaze narrows. "You're pale. Are you sure you're okay?”

  I nod, my throat too tight to respond. He reaches over and takes my hand in his, warming it. "You're doing great. The press is loving you. The paparazzi are obsessed. Angela—" He leans even closer. "You've made it. You're a real star."

  His words unlock my throat and lift me up. It's what I've been fighting for. It's my dream. So many people dream of this level of success, and I’ve achieved it.

  But at what cost?

  The hotel is opulent, beyond any of the other amazing places we've stayed on this junket. In the morning we have press meetings for four hours. By lunch time I'm exhausted, and my throat is sore. One of the PAs brings me a warm tea with honey. "Thanks, Sandra,” I say. She smiles. In her early forties, with blonde, gray-streaked hair, she has worked as a PA for almost twenty years.

  "Never wanted to be an actor," she told me while we were in Hong Kong. "I like keeping things organized. Gives me a thrill." Her words punctuated by a throaty laugh that was absorbed into the luxury of the car we were riding in.

  "These things can be killer on your throat,” Sandra says. I nod and sip the sweet elixir she brought me. "I'll take you to your lunch appointment—you've got the China Vogue interview." My shoulders slump at the reminder that my day is so not over yet. But I pull them back quickly. This is what I want. The more press the better.

  The reporter for Shanghai Vogue is a young Chinese man wearing 1950s prison-issue style glasses, a narrow black tie over a white button down shirt, and shiny black pants. "Angela Daniels," he says, his cheeks rushing with color as he extends his hand. "I'm Sing Chin.”

  "Sorry I'm late," I say, knowing he's been waiting for at least thirty minutes. "Traffic on the way over was terrible."

  "Don't worry about it." He has a slight accent but sounds like he has spent some time in America.

  We take our seats at a table draped in white linen, and a waiter hurries over to fill my water glass. We are in the lobby restaurant of a hotel, about as fancy as the one I’m staying at. I glance out the plate glass windows to the busy street. I want to get out there and explore. The waiter leaves me with the menu, and I glance at it. Sing is setting up a recorder, and I suppress a sigh.

  "So, Angela," Sing starts, like every other freaking reporter on the darn trail. "Thanks for taking the time to meet with me."

  "Thank you for being interested in me," I say with a self-deprecating laugh.

  "Well," he smiles. "You are blowing up right now."

  I glance down at myself and grin at him. "Hey, I know I have not been in training as often, but I think I'm doing okay." He looks confused, and I lean across the table toward him. "Are you saying I should order a salad?”

  He goes pale. "Oh no—"

  "I'm just messing with you, Sing. I hear what you're saying. It's just hard to believe sometimes. Dreams this big don't usually come true."

  He visibly relaxes, but the color in his cheeks may be permanent. "You're surprised by your fame?”

  "I think anyone who reaches this level is surprised by it, to a degree. Of course, we all wanted it. But really, Sing, how often do we get what we want in life?”

  "What has surprised you about it most?"

  "I'm not sure," I say, pursing my lips, pretending to think…even though I've answered this question several times over the last few weeks. "I'm not surprised by the lack of privacy. Because, of course, I knew that was a part of the price. But I'm surprised by exactly what it feels like."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well…" I lean toward him again, putting down the menu. "I would love to explore this city. Get some street food, you know. Wander inconspicuously. But I'm in a bubble." I motion to the windows behind us—a perfect metaphor of the fish bowl I'm living in.

  He nods. "Yes, I can see how that would be frustrating. There are no paparazzi right now, though,” he points out.

  "Yes…but you're here." I give him a wink.

  He leans toward me, and I get a whiff of cologne—Calvin Klein, I think. Something floral and spicy, very gender neutral. "Would you like me to take you out to some street vendors now?”

  My eyes widen. "I would freaking love that."

  Sing smiles and nods, grabbing his recorder and starting to wrap it up.

  We leave the air-conditioned, rarified interior of the hotel. On the street, it’s sweltering, dense with traffic and people. The odor of diesel and exhaust thicken the air. Sing turns left, and I follow. This is the first time since landing in China that I've walked on a city street. Usually I go from venue to venue in the back of a car.

  "There is a great market not far from here," Sing says, glancing over at me.

  "I'm good to walk," I say, even as sweat begins to break out on my back. I don't care if it seeps through my white blouse.

  He grins. "So this is your first time in China?"

  "Yes," I laugh. "First time for a lot of places. I didn't grow up traveling but always wanted to."

  "Tell me about your hometown." He pulls out his phone and holds it between us as we weave through pedestrian traffic. I glance at it for a moment and then begin to launch into my spiel. Small-town America, family farm and working, loving parents who died in a car accident when I was ten. My maternal grandmother raising me. The high school plays. A modeling contract at sixteen. Acting gigs. And now a starring role in a famous director’s fi
nal film.

  We arrive at the market, and Sing stashes his phone to point out my options. The fragrance of roasting meat and foreign spices is intoxicating. "This stall makes the most amazing noodles," Sing tells me, pointing to where a white-haired woman hunkers behind several silver pots. "The chicken stew there"—he points at a younger man with more steaming pots in front of him—"is very spicy. Really special spicy, though. It starts with a buttery texture and then the spice hits you. The only way to ease the burn is to eat more."

  "That's a pretty brilliant recipe," I say.

  Sing laughs. "Yes, very good. You want to try?”

  "After that description, how could I resist?"

  We approach the stall and Sing orders two bowls. The young man opens one of his pots, revealing a creamy-looking stew filled with colorful vegetables and hot peppers. He ladles it into two bowls and puts them on a tray. Sing pays and carries them over to one of the small tables set up on the sidewalk. We sit on the low stools, my knees coming up to my waist, and Sing puts a bowl in front of me along with a spoon and a pair of chopsticks.

  The aromatic steam from the soup mixes with the rest of the hot air around me, creating a heady perfume. "Thank you," I say to Sing. "It's so great to get out of the bubble."

  "Very glad to help."

  I taste the soup—he's right, it's buttery, and there is more to it as well, an entire world of spices. The flavor is deep, layered. I close my eyes, just tasting. Then the heat starts. It begins in my belly and climbs slowly up my throat, finally reaching my tongue and igniting it. It's so hot my mouth goes almost numb. "Wow," I say, opening my eyes.