Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  She likes my hair? I lean back on the couch, getting com-fortable. She can talk all day.

  Unfortunately, Talia’s not the one doing the talking now. The speaker’s voice interrupts again. “Do online dating if you have to, but remember, there are great people right here.”

  I make a point not to stare at Talia after that, but you don’t have to tell me twice.

  “How long has it been?” Talia asks.

  Since what? My last date? Oh, my mission. “Nine years since I was here.”

  I think Talia’s in the same demographic as me, the “graduated or even finished grad school and working and STILL not married” segment, but I’m not sure. If she’s younger, admitting that I’m twenty-eight might scare her off. I wait for the blink-tilt-recalculating-his-age expression.

  It doesn’t come. “Cool to see your mission again. Wish I could.”

  “Where’d you serve?”

  “Mostly small towns on the border of Georgia.”

  “That’s not the other side of the world. You know, they have these things, they’re called airplanes — I think I mentioned them?”

  She squints at me, like she loves and hates my logic. “What I need is a time machine. Pause my life here, then think about a vacation.”

  “You sound busy. What do you do?”

  “I’m an articling student.” She grips the edge of the couch cushion like she’s bracing for a blow.

  Not clicking for me. I know I should know it. “Sounds familiar . . . ?”

  “In Canada, you have to do an internship for almost a year after you finish law classes.”

  “So law school’s longer here?”

  “Usually. If you work really hard and play your cards right, you can finish in three and a half years.”

  Talia seems like the kind of girl who works harder than anyone else and can play some mean poker. I don’t think whatever blow she was anticipating came, and her posture relaxes, settling into the couch again. Was she expecting a lawyer crack? Do I look stupid?

  “Has the free healthcare been worth it?” I ask.

  “Oh no. Didn’t they have winter when you lived here? It’s like Rexburg only with humidity.”

  The tiny Idaho town reference pegs her as a BYU–I alum. “No,” I answer her question. “We skipped it. Global warming.”

  She smiles at my joke. Somehow, that smile’s better than watching her walk in three weeks ago, lit up and golden. Because this smile isn’t the impenetrable heat shielding façade she uses at church, and maybe all the time.

  This is a real person. And she’s beautiful.

  “So get out there,” the speaker starts winding down his rah-rah-go-date-marry pep talk. “Ask people out! Say yes to dates! Be open to every opportunity for the Lord to help you find someone to share your life with.”

  Was I just complaining how hot it was in here? Because now I’ve got goose bumps, and I don’t think the A/C kicked on. Not sure whether it’s God or the speaker who wants me to ask Talia out, but I’m ready to go for it. “Hey,” I say, drawing her attention away from the speakers overhead.

  She isn’t looking at me expectantly, like she thinks I’m going along with what the speaker said. I’m not. I want to take her out, take this chance to start over.

  But — that wasn’t my plan. I’m waiting on dating for a reason. I’ve had one conversation with her. There’s open to opportunities, and there’s stupid. Talia has no reason to say yes to me after one conversation. For all she knows I’m a serial killer or a stalker or a psycho.

  For all I know, she might be, too. A “yes” today could be worse than a no. It could be the first step back into my nightmares.

  The strains of the closing hymn begin, and the chapel doors swing open as a couple people jump on an early escape. Talia’s shields raise. My opportunity, if I wanted it, slips away. She folds her arms, but it seems less like she’s preparing for prayer and more like she’s protecting herself.

  That hits a little too close to home.

  I thought I was an idiot because I couldn’t think of anything to say before. Still an idiot, but now because I let her go.

  Once the hymn and the prayer are over, the parade out the chapel doors begins again. After half a dozen people, the next guy makes a beeline for Talia. Arjay Rathee. First or second generation immigrant from India, no older than 21. Not the likeliest of crushes.

  I might’ve passed up my chance to ask her out, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy to have another guy swoop in and sweep her away.

  “There you are,” Arjay says to her. “Late again?”

  “Hate to make an entrance.”

  Arjay offers a hand and pulls Talia to her feet. I stand, too. Totally not ready to give her up. I’m an idiot, yes — but not in a vegetative state. “Nice talking to you.”

  She glances back. “You too.” Her smile’s maybe half-shields.

  I’ll take it. Arjay tugs her down the hall, and I try to enjoy the view of Talia and not plot ways to get rid of the guy next to her.

  If I’m supposed to be starting over, I’m not sure whether I saved myself or blew it.

  Next thing I know, Sassy Beth’s next to me. “Thought we’d lost you,” she says.

  “Nope, not yet.” Unfortunately. Beth believes she has a claim on me because we went out once a month ago. By went out, I mean she asked me to bring food to a “party,” which turned out to be her and her roommates and two other guys.

  Also not my idea of starting over. But I’m not sure what is anymore, since I just let what looked like my first good chance walk away.

  Maybe I should forget about Talia for a while, no matter how hot her shoes are.

  Maybe I should forget about dating. Maybe there is no “starting over.”

  Sassy Beth reaches for my elbow, like I’ll escort her to class. I maneuver over her attack, patting her shoulder and aiming her in the right direction with her roommates, AB Beth and BC Beth. They’re from Saskatchewan, Alberta, and British Columbia, hence the nicknames. “I’ll catch up.”

  “All right,” Sassy Beth says. “But hurry.”

  I’ll hurry. If only to keep my thoughts from catching up to me.

  Okay, I don’t do romance, but I don’t have a lot else to occupy my mind as I watch Vasily’s outdated fourplex. The ’80s throwback slice of suburbia isn’t where you’d expect a spy ring.

  That’s what makes it the perfect cover. Unfortunately, it’s also perfectly boring on a Sunday evening, giving me time to roll over every second of this afternoon. I have to allow myself crushes (I’m only human), and for the last two months, that crush has taken the shape of Danny Fluker. Handsome, smart, spiritual, sincere — and he came and talked to me. I’m reliving every word, every comfortable silence, every look.

  Reason #24 why Danny Fluker is one of the congregation’s hottest commodities: those warm brown eyes. Describing someone’s eye color with food terms is bizarre unless you’re a freakish eye-eating monster, though I suddenly see the appeal. But it’s not the color — it’s the way that he looks at you, open and inviting and utterly magnetic.

  Magnetic is dangerous. Inviting is dangerous. Open is very dangerous. I avoid romantic entanglements for excellent reasons. All of which escaped me when I caught Danny staring at my calves (and gave him a second to look away, or I’d have to be more offended than flattered).

  Okay, this is dumb. I shift in my seat to focus on Vasily’s boring brick building.

  I’ve had one conversation with the man — Danny, not Vasily. I mean, I figured he was dating Sassy Beth. I know almost nothing about him. Yet I’ve never been less happy to see Arjay, my one friend at church. Never mind that Arjay called me on my stupid crush within sixty seconds. At least he kept that part of the conversation in whispered Urdu. (I became his friend so I could practice my CIA-trained fourth language. Not sure it counts as real friendship.)

  Gah, no — focus, Talia. I glue my gaze to apartment three’s forest green door. Distractions can be deadly. No matter h
ow much I want to talk to Danny again, no matter how smart he is (reason #17), no matter how temptingly touchable his dark hair is where it’s just long enough to flip out behind his ears in little half-curls (reasons #7, 39 and 61). I don’t do distracted.

  Apartment three’s porch light flips on, and I straighten to full attention like a Canadian Pointer. Vasily steps out, glances around. My breath stops even faster than when Danny did the same thing in the foyer this afternoon.

  Unlike Danny, Vasily doesn’t notice me — thank you, black shirt, black jacket, black Honda in the shadows. He jogs down the stairs to his white Subaru. He’s got something small in his right hand, maybe baseball-sized judging by his grip. Definitely something I’m interested in.

  He gets in his car and starts the engine. I wait until he’s down the block before I pursue.

  I follow him for ten minutes on a circuitous route through the suburbs and over major arteries. Watching that white car isn’t enough to keep my mind totally off my favorite topic today. I’m remembering reason #95, Danny’s laugh, when I realize the yellow traffic light in front of me is now red — and Vasily’s down the block.

  Crud. Yet another reason it’s better to not let a crush get out of control.

  Surveilling Vasily tonight was a long shot, especially while we’re still waiting on the intelligence from his phone’s memory card. He didn’t do a classic surveillance detection route — no mundane stops — but he did manage to lose my (admittedly shorthanded) tail. I put another tally mark in the suspicious column and turn around to wait at his house.

  Until that SD card analysis gets back, I’m keeping an eye on him. And my mind off Danny.

  Articling students work fifty hours a week, easy — and so do spies. You can imagine I don’t have a lot of time for a personal life (not to mention that whole spy alone thing). I have a late night of surveillance and an early morning to squeeze in seven hours of law-intern-y stuff, but even after all that I’m still fighting down a giddy grin every twenty minutes.

  Just the thought stirs up a horde of hummingbirds in my stomach. (Or maybe that should be teeny, tiny planes.)

  I think I’ve got the silly smile under control by three, when I finish up my internship at Terfort & Sutter and head to my cover job at “Keeler Tate & Associates,” AKA the CIA. I file the post-action report on last night’s Sunday drive: Vasily returned an hour later without whatever he was carrying, and a peek in his car windows yielded nothing the right size. Could be a dead drop.

  Wish I had more to go on, but the full analysis of that SD card will take days. Elliott brings me up to date on a case I’m helping with, tracking down a source who’s leaking intel from our embassy to the United Arab Emirates’. In the diplomatic dictionary, that’s filed under “Not Okay.”

  Elliott pursues a lead: a gala for a human rights summit where our leak will most likely be. While he tries to get us — or me, on the piano — in as last-minute replacement entertainment, I move to updates on my cases. A Turkmen scientist I’ve been targeting is speaking in an hour on the University of Ottawa campus, my alma mater.

  I’m finishing my catch-up when Elliott comes to my desk. I realize I’m smiling again — yep, thinking about Danny. What was he about to say to me before the closing hymn, and why didn’t he?

  I push that memory away and turn to Elliott. “You’re all lined up,” he reports, tapping his watch. “Seven forty to eight.”

  I grimace before I can stop myself. Is it bad I don’t want to use yet another of my rusting artistic skills? “Better get practicing” is all I say, stretching those keyboard fingers. Where can I get at a piano? The church building?

  Instead of a piano, though, I’m picturing the floral couch where Danny and I sat yesterday.

  “What’s got you all giddy?” Elliott interrupts the memory, leaning against my desk.

  “Hm?” A warm tide creeps up my neck. One hand flies there almost against my will, like my subconscious automatically wants to cover a blush.

  “You keep drifting back to La La Land whenever you’re working, and no case is that good.”

  Crap. My mind echoes back on that innocent little phrase he said Friday: I know you better than anyone.

  But does he? I’m not about to turn to Elliott for girl talk, and I’m going to keep my work life far, far away from a guy I’ve had all of one (cute) conversation with. “I — ah — no idea what you’re talking about.” I turn to my computer and try to type, but I have to delete the same word three times before I can get my fingers to spell it correctly. (That would be t-h-e.)

  “Is this about a guy?” Elliott’s tone rings with condescension. “What are you, twelve?”

  See what I mean? I rub two fingertips against my forehead, not answering. Can’t encourage him.

  Too late. Elliott’s gathered the open-source intelligence, and he’s bringing it to bear on me. He leans down to mock me at close range. “You meet someone in your case files this weekend?”

  Now he teases me about working hard at my cover job? “No, no — I — it’s nothing.”

  “So it is a guy. New friend?”

  Okay, he’s caught me lying. Change tactics: feed him as little of the truth as I can. “Not exactly, not really.” I wave away his interest. “It’s nothing. Won’t go anywhere.”

  “So one-night stand material?”

  I fire a scowl at him. He knows me better than that. Then I see his face. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. Yeah, well, congratulations.

  He smirks. “You know you’re going to have to tell me sometime.”

  I cock my head and slap on a sarcastic stare, daring him to push me. How many times have I tried to get him to talk to me these last couple weeks? Like I didn’t see that “I need space” email from his fiancée. “It was just —” Defensiveness infiltrates my voice, so I try again, still on the as-little-of-the-truth tack. “I don’t know — a little . . . moment.”

  When I look up, I glimpse Elliott’s flash of a frown, like I’ve somehow signaled he’s pushed me as far as I’ll give. He shifts his weight off my desk and turns back to the case (finally!). “Okay, they’ll be expecting us at seven —”

  “‘Us,’ Kemosabe?” I quirk an eyebrow at him.

  “Yeah, you and your driver.” He indicates himself with a Latin-esque flourish.

  Riiight. “Thursday night?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” I grab my internship case files, my Sisyphean assignment, from under my desk. “Well, my Turkmen friend is holding a forum on natural gas pipelines this afternoon, and I’d better get down there to support him.”

  “Is that who’s got you all giggly?”

  That type of teasing is much safer territory. “I’m not giggly. If I were, it’d have nothing to do with him.”

  “I bet.”

  I roll my eyes and pack up for the day. “I’ll practice after that. See you tomorrow.” Should be able to get in to use a piano at church. And I don’t let myself hope Danny will be there, too. Much.

  I settle into a chair in the greenroom of the Ottawa Con-vention Centre Thursday night. Performance time, and the same nerves hum in my stomach as before our dance routine. I don’t allow even a dash of disappointment that I didn’t run into Danny despite hitting up the chapel for practice the last three nights (before going to watch Vasily). Even thinking of Danny doesn’t change the fact I’m the opposite of giddy.

  I can’t afford to be silly tonight. I adjust my red updo wig to remind myself of my cover: Alaine Marchant. Consummate performer.

  All I have to do is get through a couple songs I’ve known for decades — and then the real hard part begins. I’ve studied US Embassy rosters all week to be able to recognize any personnel here to ID the leak, and Elliott’s working the Emirati angle to find his contact.

  Elliott shifts in the seat next to me, but I make a point not to look at him. I still can’t forget his fiancée’s “I need some space” email, and he’s been extra weird toward me too. Much as I want to help,
my extensive experience watching relationships disintegrate can’t prevent disaster.

  So I run through scales on my lap. Not to be ignored, Elliott slips his hand onto mine. “You’ll do great.”

  Whether holding my hand is supposed to be a cover or not, I pull free. “Just staying warmed up.”

  All I have to do is perform for twenty minutes. Then I can slide into the party and mingle while hunting for our embassy leak. The event coordinator pops in to summon me for my turn, and I focus on my breathing. That may be the only thing that gets me through the performance, classical standbys I’ve known for a decade. That and muscle memory.

  I survive a few minor fumbles, and the longest twenty minutes of my life pass in three sonatas. I’m almost to the exit when a freckly guy steps in my path. Don’t recognize him. “How did you choose the Chopin?” he asks in a nasally Northeastern American accent, smiling like he thinks he’s suave.

  “It’s a favorite,” I reply. Because I memorized it as a teenager.

  “Interesting choice for the human rights summit. Polish-French, et cetera.”

  Is he trying to impress me with his “extensive” knowledge of Romantic composers? Not working. “Glad you appreciated the selection.” I make my smile as sincere as I can and edge by.

  Now for the hard part. Out of one disguise and into another to infiltrate the gala crowd. The greenroom’s empty. I head into its tiny bathroom to change. I’m almost ready to down mocktails with the diplomatic set when my phone vibrates. A text message from Elliott’s operational phone: Incoming. Then the greenroom door clanks shut.

  I’m not alone. And I thought I was having a tough time breathing easy earlier.

  I listen at the bathroom door, but can’t hear anything. I have to check. The door handle is well greased, and I ease it open without making a sound. Before I crack the door, I kill the light in the bathroom. Kinda hard to “sneak” with that on.

  My eyes adjust to the dark and I can finally see into the room — and see the man in a suit and the woman in a burqa making out fifteen feet away. My heart drops. Think I’ve found the embassy leak. Now if I can get past them.