I have a missed call from an unknown number. Swiping over to the voicemail screen, I see there's a 10-second long message. We have press meetings this morning for two hours before our flight.
Julian comes up behind me and nuzzles my neck. I lean into him, closing my eyes, and let the phone fall back into my purse.
"You're amazing," he says into my hair.
I turn in his arms. "You're incredible," I say back.
His lips brush mine, and I bend to give him better access, my purse and phone forgotten…everything but the feel of him gone.
To be lost in this physical space is such sweet relief. Such a decadent escape. My fingers dive into his hair, feeling the thick waves of it. He groans and moves forward, pushing me against the wall. The solidness at my back, and the man at my front, gives me a sense of place, of purpose, and I wrap a leg around his waist as he deepens the kiss, his hands on my cheeks, holding me, angling me.
A knock at the door releases a low growl from his chest. I can't and don't want to stop the giggle that burbles up from my chest. "Angela?" It's Sandra.
Julian breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against mine. "I'm getting addicted," he whispers. A thrill runs through me. His glistening lips are right there, right in front of me. Mine.
I can do what I want with him. With anyone. I'm a freaking super spy and a famous actress.
The world is mine.
Pure erotic pleasure hums through me.
Sandra knocks again, this time more persistent. Julian leans away, releasing me from the wall. But really I'm the one who released him…
I straighten my shirt before answering the door. The PA, her ear piece in place, wearing comfortable clothing and simple pony tail, is waiting. She holds out a coffee cup for me. "Good morning," she says brightly.
"Morning," I grin, not even trying to hide the good humor I'm in. "Want to come in?"
She glances at her smart watch. How many steps a day does she take? I bet it's over ten thousand. A flash of her circling her small hotel room to complete her daily goal enters my mind. I swallow, something twisting in me. "They need you downstairs in twenty. Did you have breakfast?"
I glance back into the suite. Julian has gone into the bedroom, probably getting dressed. The door opens, and he steps out. God, he looks good. In his tuxedo from last night, his finger-fucked hair twisted over those sparkling blue eyes, his bow tie hanging loose, jacket in hand. Those glorious hard planes of his chest, the rounded perfection of his shoulders, are visible through the fine material of his white shirt.
Seeing me watching him, Julian grins, those damn dimples practically making me tremble. Sandra makes a small sound of surprise but does not comment. "I've got to run to my room, love," he says. "See you later."
He leans over and gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek, lingering just long enough for the stubble around those silky lips to rub me just right.
"Morning, Sandra,” he says, his voice husky.
She checks her watch again. "You've got thirty-five," she says, all business.
He grins at her. "Thanks.” He steps out of the suite, throwing me one last heated glance. Jesus, he is something else.
"So, breakfast?" she says, once he's out the door.
I have to clear my throat. "Yeah, sure.”
"Great." She pulls out her phone and speaks quietly to someone. Moments later, a waiter arrives with enough food to feed half the cast. I sip at the coffee and have a hard-boiled egg, my appetite not focused on food this morning.
We head down to the interview rooms, with their gold paisley carpet and comfortable looking chairs, posters from the movie arrayed around them. The makeup artist works quickly, the hairdresser pulling my hair into a casual ponytail that takes thirty minutes to perfect. My makeup—which makes me look like I wake up this way—takes another forty.
By the time I'm under the lights and miked up, my high from last night is starting to wear off, and the drudgery of the press tour is crowding back in. “Last day,” I remind myself under my breath.
By this time tomorrow, I'll be back in my apartment. I can't wait to see Archie.
Sandra enters, holding the door open. My heart leaps into my throat when Temperance follows her in. His eyes meet mine, and I swallow, forcing a calm, pleasant expression onto my face. I stand to greet him. "Greg Martin, for Entertainment China—an English-language publication for the big ex-pat community,” the PA says.
"Thank you," I say, holding out my hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Martin."
"Call me Greg," Temperance says, his accent British today.
"Greg, then." I turn toward my chair, taking the moment with my back turned to suck in a deep breath and relax.
Sandra’s walkie-talkie crackles, and she excuses herself, so that it's just Temperance and me. He takes the reporter’s chair, one long leg crossed over the other as he pulls out a small notebook and a pair of glasses. Perching the spectacles on his nose, he smiles at me.
I'm staring, waiting, desperate to know how he will proceed. "How are you feeling?” he asks.
"Good, you?" My voice is tentative; I'm not sure where he is going with this. I have so many questions but am afraid to ask any of them.
"Great, you did a wonderful job."
"Did I?"
"Perfection." He's practically purring.
"Is he..." I chew on my lip for a moment…do I want to know? I drop my voice to a whisper. "Dead?"
"Don't worry about Vlad; that's not your job."
I stiffen. "I'm going to find out. It's natural that I want to know."
He smiles. "So true. You're good at this. You'll need to find out through regular channels though. How would I know?" He waves his pen up and down his body, referencing his facade of a reporter.
"Okay," I say, brows bunching. "So what are you doing here?"
"Just wanted to congratulate you."
"Really?" I sit back in my seat. "I don't believe you."
He grins again. "You are really good at this."
"What do you want?" My eyes track to the door. How much time do we have?
"I wanted to give you something to take home with you."
"What?" He holds the pen out to me. It's black as ebony, with a gold tip and bottom. He shakes it a little, encouraging me to take it.
Raising my eyes, I meet his gaze. "Why?" I ask.
A smile curls his lips as he shakes his head. "Just take it. Get it home. I'll pick it up from you in a day or two. Don't lose it."
"What is it?" I ask again, and he just shakes his head.
My insistence suddenly seems ridiculous. I'm willing to kill a man, poison his drink with some unknown substance, but not carry a pen over international borders?
I reach my hand out and take the pen from him. It's heavy, as I'd expect an expensive pen to be, slick against my fingers. A chill runs over me as excitement tingles across my skin. This is dangerous. And it feels so good—that erotic pleasure is pulsing through me again.
Temperance is smiling when I look up at him. "You've done a great service for your country," he says.
"It—" I cut myself off and shake my head.
"What?" He leans forward, his brows bunching. He's concerned…afraid I can't handle this? He has no idea how much I'm liking it. Should I tell him? No, keep it a secret. Temperance is not a friend. He’s using me—for a greater good perhaps, but that does not make him trustworthy.
I shake my head. "Nothing." I give him one of my smiles—the one that hints at a sadness behind my eyes. "I'm happy to help my country." I take a breath. "Proud." This is hard for me, but I'm doing it because I'm a patriot.
Temperance’s eyes bore through me, seeking the reality beyond my words. Can he see the truth? He sits back as the door opens. "Thank you so much, Angela, I think I have everything I need,” he says.
"Wonderful." I give him a big smile—the one I give to every reporter at the end of an interview. It's broad, and yet, with the way I squint my eyes, feels intimate. It says, I smile for a liv
ing but you've really been a pleasure to spend time with. "Thank you for your interest in me and our film."
"You're going places, I'm sure," Temperance says as he stands, holding out his hand to shake.
I stand as well and shake his hand. "Good luck," he says then turns to leave.
Sandra watches him go. "Damn," she says under her breath, her voice practically a wolf whistle. I laugh. "Well," she says, turning to me with a smile, "that man is something else, huh? Idris Elba vibes, right?"
I just smile.
"Never seen him before, must be new," she muses to herself, as she checks her watch again. There is a small knock on the door, and the next reporter and his crew step into the room.
I slip the black pen into my purse before taking my seat and putting on a smile as the cameraman sets up.
Julian and I ride together to the airport. A group of photographers are waiting at the terminal. "Can I hold your hand?" Julian asks.
He's asking if I'll be his girlfriend in the public eye. The black pen in my purse feels heavy. A whisper of guilt and doubt flitters through me. Is it wrong to be falling into this with Julian when I've got such a big secret?
He's got secrets. Everyone has secrets.
There is a shy smile pulling at my lips, and I let it draw my mouth up. "You sure you want to?" I ask.
He nods. "Yes, for months I've wanted to." Julian scoots closer to me, putting his arm around my waist and pulling me tight to him. "I—" He licks his lips, those blue eyes holding mine, making my body feel weak and pliable, making my mind feel strong and powerful. "I want to be with you, Angela."
I kiss him rather than answer. I want him too. But more than I want him, I’m enjoying the hell out of him right now. I don't know when I'll have had enough, but this...this could last.
I blink against the flashes of the cameras as we climb out of the black town car. Julian pulls me forward. In my other hand I grip my purse, the pen Temperance gave me zipped inside an interior pocket. Julian keeps his head down as the photographers yell questions at us.
We move into the airport, where security holds back the throng. My heart is beating wildly. Julian's hand is tight on mine. He moves his arm around my waist as we wait in line, Sandra in front of us. She handles everything, and soon we are being escorted to the front of the security line.
My purse and carry-on bag go onto the conveyor belt, and I breathe through the slight panic from relinquishing the pen to the X-ray machine.
I pass through the metal detector, my socked feet cool against the linoleum floor. My purse appears, but the conveyor belt stops before it reaches me. A bored-looking guard, face etched in deep grooves from decades of frowning, pulls it off and looks up—starting a little when he sees me. "This is your bag?" he asks in accented English.
I nod, my mouth suddenly a desert.
"Come with me?" He moves down the opposite side of the belt, and I grab my shoes before following him to a metal table. Julian picks up my carry-on and his bag, then steps up next to me as the guard places my purse onto the examination table.
He slips on a pair of thin plastic gloves, and I finally find enough spit to swallow. Unzipping my purse, he looks inside before cautiously reaching in to pull out my wallet, phone, a package of mints, and the key fobs for my apartment and car.
My passport and ticket go next to them on the metal table. My Kindle is the last thing from the main compartment to be pulled. An intense need for a comfortable chair and a cup of tea wells up in me. I grip my shoes to keep from grabbing at the device.
When I hear the interior zipper opening, my heart beats heavily in my chest, blood rushes in my ears, and visions of myself in a Chinese prison camp race through my mind. The security agent pulls out the pen and puts it next to the other items. Reaching back into the small pocket, he rummages around. My eyes are fastened onto the pen.
Look away!
I drag my gaze back to the security agent and put a mild smile on my face; I am patient, innocent, and well-behaved. "Ah," he says, pulling out a pointed nail file. He holds it up for my inspection. "This," he says, "is not allowed."
"I'm sorry," I say, impressed with how normal my voice sounds considering that my heart just slipped back into my chest. "I didn't realize it was in there."
He nods, placing it to the side. One more swipe around in the bag, and he nods to himself. It’s secure.
The agent begins to put the items back in my bag. He picks up the pen and spends a moment looking at it. "Nice," he says before dropping it back into the interior zippered pocket.
"Thank you," I say, clearing my throat.
Julian’s palm at my lower back, sneakers back on, I try to keep a natural grip on my purse as we move toward the first class lounge but can't help a tight squeeze, just to make sure the pen is still there. It is.
Once in the lounge, Julian orders us both drinks, and we settle into comfortable arm chairs. He pulls out his phone and begins to scroll. "I'm going to run to the bathroom," I say. A final check before I pull out my Kindle and slip into the world of fiction.
Julian nods and gives me a smile before returning his attention to the phone’s screen.
In the restroom, I step into the stall and close the door, leaning against it and taking deep breaths, forcing myself to unwind. Opening up my purse, I take out the pen and stare at it for a moment. Should I unscrew it, try to figure out what it is?
No. Better not to know.
I hear the door open and a pair of heels click on the tile floor. Putting the pen back into the zippered pocket and securing it, I flush the toilet and then step out of the stall. A Caucasian woman in tight black pants, with luscious dark curls streaked with red highlights cut into a stylish bob, is washing her hands. She smiles at me in the mirror, her lips painted an even brighter red than her hair.
I step up next to her, putting my purse strap across my chest to wash my hands. Her muscles tense, and alarm bells jangle in my mind. Instinct pushes me back from the sink as she twists, her hand chopping through the air, aimed for my throat.
My back slams into a stall door, and I stumble as it gives way. The woman kicks out backward, her pointed heel striking for my gut. I dive into the stall, cornering myself but avoiding the blow.
Her leg comes down, and she stands on it, spinning and aiming a roundhouse kick to my face. My hands thrust up, blocking it and throwing her off balance for a moment.
Red lips drawn tight, my attacker grunts as she catches onto the counter and steadies herself. I take in a breath for the first time since she took a swing at me. What in the Cornhole is going on?
Pushing off the row of sinks, she leaps at me again, her fist barely missing my face as I duck. Coming up fast, I bring an uppercut with me, but she's spun away.
She's fast.
I raise my fists in a defensive pose and, with my back leg pressed against the toilet, bring my front foot up, striking out. Red steps back again, leaving me enough room to get out of the stall.
I land on my front foot and bring my rear one up, striking at her again. She catches the foot, her eyes lighting up with power.
With a quick twist, she turns my leg. I’m forced to follow or break my ankle. My chest hits the ground, and Red holds my foot at her waist. She twists it again, and again I follow, my face up now, looking into her eyes, black jewels lit with victory.
I bring my free foot up and over her wrists, cracking it down hard. She grimaces but her hands remain locked around my left ankle. Raising on my elbows, I grit my teeth and kick at her hands with my right foot. She twists, and I cry out with pain as my ankle strains. Turning to the side, to ease the pain, I place my palms on the bathroom floor and kick for her stomach with my right foot. She stumbles back, and her hold loosens. I strike out again. This time her grip breaks, and I pull free.
I try to scramble away but she leaps on top of me, a fist hitting my chin so hard that stars dance in front of my eyes. The side of my head hits the floor, and she rolls me over, grabbing for my purse. She
wants the pen.
Let her have it, a weak part of me suggests.
If you let them take one thing, they will take everything, my grandmother's voice reminds me.
I grip the bag and try to roll away with it, but Red has got her legs on either side of me. She yanks it back.
The scent of her is all around me—floral perfume, fresh sweat, and the soap from the dispenser by the sink. She takes a hand off the purse, bringing it up, telegraphing another punch. I bring my arms up to cover my face, and she strikes my chest instead.
I can’t breathe.
Red again yanks at my bag, and I almost lose hold of it.
My lungs are not working.
Spots dance in front of my eyes.
Red rips the bag from my quickly numbing fingers.
She stands up, staring down at me for a moment. I'm lying on the bathroom floor, wheezing…a small sip of air gets through, clearing my vision enough for me to see her rear back. I try to roll away, but she kicks me in the side, pain lighting through my ribs.
Another sip of air makes it through as she turns and starts for the exit.
No!
Barely any oxygen in my body, spots of darkness swirling, I lunge for her, grabbing an ankle right above that sharp, dangerous heel.
Red falls forward, her hands coming out and hitting the wall. I pull off her shoe, that sharp weapon now mine. She looks over her shoulder at me and sneers. Air whooshes back as I bring the heel around and drive it into her calf.
She gives a sharp cry and kicks out with her other foot, the stiletto catching me in the shoulder and shooting pain down my arm. My fingers lose their hold on the shoe, and I fall back.
Red pulls the stiletto from her calf and brandishes it like a knife, my purse in her other fist. I scramble to my feet and drop back into my fighting pose. "Give it back," I pant.
She doesn't waste her breath on words, instead kicking out with her bare foot. It's my turn to grab it and twist. She grunts and turns the way I’m twisting, keeping hold of the purse. The shoe, with its sharp, blood-stained heel, skitters across the floor, stopping when it hits the door.
A Spy Is Born Page 10
