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

  Another patron brushes by my table, knocking my napkin to the floor. “Oh, sorry,” he says as we both lean down to pick it up. I almost avoid his gaze, but just before he straightens, I recognize his eyes. The last person I expected to see here.

  Mack. Head of our Canadian counterparts at CSIS.

  Oh boy.

  He sets the napkin on my table for me and walks away. I’m no idiot. After a few minutes, I pretend to use the napkin and discreetly check the underside for a message. (He doesn’t write that fast; he switched them out.) She’s taken.

  Either Mack’s targeting her, or he’s already using her as an agent. (To spy on us? Or her Russian friends?) Mack tosses his cup in the garbage and heads out. I stall before I pursue and find him waiting at the corner, patting his pockets.

  We’re alone. Mack starts around the corner and I follow, trying to look like we’re strangers matching pace. “We’ve been together for three months,” he murmurs. And I know “together” doesn’t mean they’re dating, since Mack’s been married forever.

  If Mack’s recruited her, unless she’s playing him, she’s not spying for the Russians — she’s spying on them. “Trust her?”

  “Passed a poly. Everything’s corroborated.” His answer’s clipped to keep the communication discreet, but the meaning’s clear: Galina’s not guilty. At the corner, Mack turns the opposite direction. Like how my case is veering off on another course.

  A surveillance detection run takes me to Vasily’s. As with all our rehearsals, my pulse steadily climbs the closer I get. I’m dancing with the enemy, trying to convince him I’d be a great asset to his spy ring. If he even suspects I’m not who I say I am, I’ll blow the whole op. I’ve got to focus on more than my footwork.

  After forty-five minutes of rehearsal, focus is still not my friend. I check the floor-to-ceiling windows in the dance studio mirror again for someone I recognize on the street. Another drawback to Campbell moving into Danny’s spare bedroom: now two people who know the real me live around the corner from Vasily’s studio. I’m four times as cautious as I was before. Which is fifty times as difficult because Vasily’s convinced he’s found me a partner, so we’ve doubled up on practices. I had to leave Danny’s to come here (with a few surveillance stops) last night, and here I am again. Tomorrow might be my only night off this week.

  “Joanne, please,” Vasily says for the fourth time. “Stay with me.”

  “Sorry.” I keep my Canadian cover firmly in place with my accent and refocus on Vasily.

  Not thinking about Danny.

  Okay, yes I am. I’m thinking maybe if he’s making this much progress with cooking, his creative activity, maybe that whole baggage situation is getting better.

  You know, the opposite of mine, so the point’s probably moot. But pretty soon, Danny might be ready to date. Anyone but me.

  Vasily clears his throat, and I once again draw my attention to him. “Rumba is a dance of passion,” he begins. But my concentration immediately begins to dissipate, and not just because I’ve had this lecture from him twice in the last week, and four times from Elliott before that.

  Sorry if I can’t stare at you like I want to tear your clothes off. I’m too worried about keeping my feet moving in the right direction.

  “What are you passionate about, Joanne?” Vasily cuts into my thoughts with a detour from the usual course of his lecture. “What is your passion?”

  “Ballroom.” The cover was never intended to be scrutinized, so I need to be careful what I say here.

  “You enjoy dance,” Vasily says, “but I do not think it is your passion. Is there anything you enjoy as much as dance?”

  Eating. Sleeping. The five minutes a day I’m not working. (Oh, and working. That too.)

  “How about your job? With Parliament, yes?”

  He remembers my cover job. Could he hope to recruit me as an agent, or milk me for intelligence? “My job’s good — although, man, sometimes people need to talk sense into those MPs.”

  Vasily’s attention wanders away. Considering what I said? But then he changes the subject. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.” Covers are single. Safer for them, too.

  “Dating anyone?”

  “No.” I take a split second to check the street in the mirrors again.

  “Hm.” Vasily screws up his lips, concentrating. “There must be someone or something you love. Your family?”

  I roll my eyes. I love them — even Mom — but I’m most passionate about avoiding that mess.

  “Someone you would like to be dating?”

  “Not really.”

  Vasily smiles slowly, and I already know why. That was the world’s least convincing lie. As if he could read my mind, I carefully keep far away from any thoughts about Danny.

  Um, beginning now. Or now. But seriously, now.

  “Sorry, Vasily, but the reason I started dancing was to not think about my personal life.” No more words come. I physically can’t tell him any more. It’s too close to the truth for a cover, and even then — I can’t. “That’s all.”

  He nods like an old sage, and I feel like I’ve climbed Everest. “Why don’t we work on paso doble?” he suggests.

  “Sounds good.” Not sure whether the guy’s giving up on me or senses we’ve gone somewhere I don’t want to. I try to convince myself this is good for the cover — if Joanne had no issues, no personality, no concerns, Vasily would see through her a lot faster.

  But I feel like I’ve given away too much.

  We spend another half hour on traveling spins and the chasse capes figure, one of the most advanced set of moves in the dance. Vasily has me count the steps with him. I stare down at our feet on the floorboards as we walk through the step, together, step, step, crossover, spin of the first half. When I’ve got that up to speed, we add the “leg hook,” lifting my knee. It’s a complex sequence, but once I can watch myself in the mirror instead of fixating on our feet, Vasily seems satisfied with my progress. We move on to the twist-kick-step-twist-kick of the coup de pique. (Don’t ask me why the moves of the paso doble are in French.)

  My leg muscles are practically humming by the time we finish. Between Elliott and Vasily, I’ve been through my own personal Dancing with the Stars these last few months. Unfortunately, beating Vasily and Galina isn’t part of my goal for the long term, so this doesn’t feel like progress.

  I grab my bag from its spot by the stereo and change into my street shoes. Vasily, already changed and packed, waits by the wall with the ballet barre (ugh, bad memories). I tug on my jacket, and we head through the office together.

  “Does dancing help you escape your problems?” he asks.

  “For a while.” I look at Vasily. He bites his lip, staring at the floor as we cross the tile. He wants to say something, but doesn’t know if he should.

  I pretend the anticipation building in my system is nothing. Vasily could be bugged about a cute girl or family problems. But I’ll never know if I don’t ask. “Is something the matter?”

  “Just . . . a friendship. It’s been stressful.”

  I stop short at the front doors. Normally, half a block from my friends’ apartment, I’d be trying to get rid of Vasily, but we’re finally making the smallest bit of progress — if his friend is his handler and not, say, his bookie. “Stressful?” I ask. “Mind if I ask what’s wrong?”

  He doesn’t answer. But spies are part confidant, part counselor, part confessor. I key into my most sympathetic expression, like I understand exactly what he’s going through, and all he has to do is open up and spill his deepest darkest secrets to relieve that burden.

  Heck, for all I know, that’s how it works.

  Vasily focuses on the door handle, but meets my eyes at last. “I — I couldn’t —”

  “After all you’ve done for me? Listening’s the least I could do.”

  He draws in a deep breath. “It didn’t seem like much when he first asked me, but now, I worry I’ll hurt someon
e.”

  Not a bookie. I furrow my brow slightly. “How could you hurt someone?”

  “My friend has asked me to give him . . . information. That might hurt someone.” He pushes through the doors before I respond, to leave that confession and all its implications behind in the foyer.

  I match his pace on the sidewalk. “I see why you’d be stressed.”

  Vasily glances over. “Yes. Well. I’ll figure something out.”

  “If you ever need to talk about it, I’m here.”

  One side of his mouth tilts up. “Thank you, Joanne.”

  We reach the street corner and wait for the light. My car’s the other way, but I’m not giving up this first connection. Too soon to push him our direction, but if he’s an unwilling agent, this might be easier than I thought.

  The light flashes for us to cross the street — toward Danny’s building. Okay, creating this relationship of trust or not, I may not be able to continue this direction and keep my cover. We reach the other sidewalk, and I turn to Vasily to say goodbye.

  “Talia!” shouts a familiar voice.

  My stomach plunges faster than the mercury during the last cold snap. Crap. I fight off the instinct to see who’s calling me. (Though I’ve got the tiniest bit of comfort: not Danny.) Instead, I keep my gaze glued to Vasily. “Did you want me to meet the man who needs a partner?”

  “Absolutely — if you think you’re ready.”

  Chances are low, but might as well ask. “This isn’t your friend who’s stressing you out, right?”

  “Right.” He dismisses that concern. “Forget I mentioned him.”

  Aaand we’re back to where we started. So I start over. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  “How about an informal meeting? To see if it’s a good fit — Saturday at eleven? Here?” He gestures back at the studio.

  “Hey! Talia!” shouts my friend that I might seriously have to hurt. (It’s either Campbell or Joel, and believe me — I would.)

  “I’ll be there.”

  Vasily grins, because this is supposed to be a major tri-umph, instead of a defeat. If Vasily succeeds in getting me a partner, I have 0 reason to see Vasily again.

  Maybe we’ll have to not succeed.

  “Talia!” Campbell/Joel’s close enough to be sure it’s me. He should also be sure I’m ignoring him, but I shouldn’t put it past him to ignore that right back.

  But we’re about two seconds from a very bad showdown. My mouth goes dry as Vasily hesitates. What if he wants to talk about the stressful friend again?

  “See you Saturday,” he finally says.

  “Great.”

  Vasily turns — heading away from Campbell/Joel. I breathe a sigh of relief and start in the direction of Danny’s building, not looking at Joel as I pass.

  “Hey!” He jumps in front of me, and I fake a startled hop back.

  “Oh, hey — you scared me.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been calling for you.”

  You don’t say. “Really? I didn’t hear you.”

  He changes the subject. “Are you doing anything tomorrow? Danny and Campbell were talking about getting a group together to see a movie at the Diefenbunker.”

  I bite back a smile. Last time I went to the city’s declassified Cold War bunker, I was running surveillance for a dead drop pickup. (Yes, it was Elliott who wanted to use such a goofy drop site. Just once.) “What movie?”

  “From Russia with Love.”

  Oh. Goody. Sean Connery notwithstanding, Bond films from the era of camp aren’t my thing. But hanging out with Danny is (and unfortunately, my work is just beginning for the night, so I can’t go do that now). “Sounds like fun. I’ll try to make it.”

  “Great. The movie starts at seven, so we’ll probably meet around six.”

  “I’ll try,” I say again. I don’t have any agent meetings scheduled (that’s tonight), but sometimes they come up at the last minute. “See you later.”

  Joel finally gets the not-really-a-hint-anymore I’m done with this conversation and starts for Danny’s building, leaving me to tally my losses for the night. I did manage to avoid Joel till Vasily was gone. But my only progress with Vasily is on my dance technique — and now we’ve got a deadline to end even that side of our relationship.

  I’ve got a long way to go.

  With Vasily and Galina rehearsing (and Elliott listening in), I can’t do a whole lot to make progress with Vasily the next night, and I was formally invited to Danny’s this time. Once I’m done at Terfort & Sutter (and a surveillance detection run), I’m knocking on Danny’s door.

  Yep. I’m pathetic.

  No — I’m a friend. Heaven knows I could use one.

  Danny answers the door. Looking confused. “Hey.” Well, that’s what he says, but what he obviously means is What are you doing here?

  My stupid little mind instantly springs to the conclusion: he must have a date. He’s taking someone else to the movie. Which was why he didn’t ask me in the first place.

  Okay, I can salvage this. A group’s going, supposedly, so I won’t seem like a total idiot. Other than standing here staring at him for a full minute. “Joel said something about a movie tonight?”

  “Oh, yeah, they left ten minutes ago.”

  So much for saving face. “Ah.”

  “Did you want to go?”

  That won’t be awkward. Goody. “I don’t —”

  “We can go.” He ducks behind the door and returns with jacket in hand. Before I reassure him he doesn’t have to go anywhere, he’s locked the door and is walking down the hall.

  “Wait, why didn’t you leave with the others?”

  “Not enough room in the cars. Not worth driving and paying to watch someone else’s screen.”

  I fall in step with him and shake my head at that engineer pragmatism, but I can’t argue. “We don’t have to go.”

  “Nah — it’ll be fun with you there.”

  Yep. I’m the fun friend. “So everyone else going was lame?”

  Danny hits the button for the elevator and considers my question. “Anything else you’d like to do?”

  That’s a joke, judging from his bright tone. “Depends. Who else went?”

  Danny lists off half a dozen people from church. I don’t know any of them well, but I don’t avoid them at all costs either. On the drive, Danny fills me in about his day as an engineer (yeah, still not clear on how he spends eight hours rocket-sciencing, but I’ll take his word). I get to tell him all about appearing before the Master (just to get a case delayed for a day, but it makes me sound good, even if I don’t have to wear robes in a lower court). We’re halfway to the Diefenbunker when his phone rings. He frowns at the screen. “Hello?”

  After a pause, he continues. “I can’t tonight —” He listens again and sighs. “I don’t know.”

  I lift an eyebrow, and he glances at me. “Hang on,” he says to the person on the phone. He turns to me. “That real estate guy I told you about wants to show me a house. Now.”

  “Sounds like slightly more fun than paying to watch someone else’s screen.”

  “Listen, I’d better go — he’s my boss’s husband, and he says it’s just this once — but I can take you back.”

  “Where’s the house?”

  Danny frowns again and switches back to the phone. “Where is it?” He checks with me. “Aylmer?”

  “It’ll take twice as long to take me back.” And I’m not ready to give up the rest of my night with him. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”

  Skepticism flickers over his features, but he gets back on the phone for the address. I get him turned around and headed across the closest bridge into Québec, but his phone’s GPS has to guide us to the house. Can’t tell what color it is in the dark, but the stone façade looks nice, and the lights in every window make it seem homey. Bay windows, a two-car garage, two stories . . . How much of a loan did Danny qualify for?


  But Danny isn’t in the market for a house — is he? “Remind me why we’re doing this,” I say as we walk up the stairs to the glowing French door.

  “He’s my boss’s husband,” he tells me again. Not much of a reason. Guess it’s enough for him, though, because he knocks.

  The door swings open, and I suck in a gasp. I know this guy, the real estate agent. Mid-forties, short, graying on top. I rack my brain to figure out how.

  The recognition shows in his face. My heart dives. I’m in trouble.

  I got it — he showed a house to one of my potential agents, and I was posing as an interior designer. Who was I that day?

  The real estate agent moves back to let us in. Danny, oblivious, starts into the tiled entry, but I grab his elbow and walk with him. “You want to have fun? Run with this.” I turn back to the agent, hold out my hand and hope I’ve got the right identity. “Hi, Georgia McBride,” I say in my broadest Southern accent, stressing both syllables of the surname so it sounds like Mack-Bride. (I went to middle school with Georgia for two years. Trust me, I know how she says it.) “I’m Mr. Fluker’s designer.”

  “Roger Anderson.” He glances at Danny. “I didn’t realize you’d hired an interior decorator already.”

  This gives me the first natural break to check Danny’s reaction. He’s eyeing me like I’m crazy — but a good crazy, I think. “Kinda fell into it,” he manages.

  He shakes Roger’s hand, and I introduce him, “My newest client, Daniel Fluker.”

  “Just Danny.”

  I flutter a hand to my chest. “Didn’t want to presume —”

  “Not presumptuous. My legal name is Danny.”

  Interesting. I pat his arm. “Iddn’t he just darlin’?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” Roger starts the tour without comment.

  Danny leans close enough to me to mutter, “Darlin’?”

  “’Course you are, darlin’. I’m the fun one, right?”

  He gives me a whatever-you-say expression and follows Roger past the staircase into the living room. I keep up a commentary on the hardwood floors and bay window, but lament how hard it’ll be to effectively use the open space. We continue to the dining room, and then the kitchen, all dark wood, stainless steel, granite and tile. It has another eating area and sliding glass doors out to a dark deck. From the eating area, there’s a family room with a fireplace. We make our way back to the entry, with a detour for the side door, laundry, half bath and garage.