by Cat Johnson
Drawing in a breath through my nose, I let him take complete possession of my mouth and, for better or worse, I enjoyed it.
It had been a long time since I'd been kissed and Tristan was an excellent kisser.
He stroked his tongue against mine and I couldn't help the tiny sound of pleasure that escaped my throat . . . and then it was over.
From our place in the shadows inside the front gate of the residence, he turned his head and glanced behind him.
"They're gone. Bloody hell, that was close." He turned back to me. "Ready to go in?"
My mouth fell open. That was it? No explanation. No apology. No thanks.
I knew enough from the last time he'd asked that question that he didn't want to hear the truth, so I said, "Yes," and then did my best to steady my wobbly legs so I could walk.
He grabbed my hand and laced his fingers through mine, which made my walking both harder and easier. Harder because now I was so conscious of his hand holding mine I couldn't think, but easier because he led me forward in a straight line directly toward the entrance.
"You did well back there." He shot me a sideways glance as we neared the doorway and the next challenge of the evening.
"Thanks."
Maybe we could try it again later when I wasn't scared to death and he wasn't ditching some mysterious person for some unknown reason. If not, then at least I had the memory of our one heated kiss to keep me warm tonight when this thing was over.
And I had to remember that it would be over eventually. Soon, I hoped, because I'd never been so nervous in my life.
While I was hoping, I hoped I wouldn't screw this thing up and get us both arrested—or worse, tortured or killed.
I should have made him tell me more about what we were doing here. What this hand off was. Who we'd be hiding it from.
As it stood all I knew was there was someone here he was avoiding, he was an excellent kisser, and we'd be hauling ass out of this place as soon as possible after he got what he came for.
"Tristan Fairchild and guest." We'd reached the door and I held my breath as Tristan gave his name to the woman with the clipboard.
"Welcome, Mr. Fairchild." The woman with a matching accent to Tristan's nodded and waved us through.
With that hurdle past I felt like I might be able to breathe again, until I got a look at all the people already filling the residence, and they turned and looked at us.
Tristan leaned in toward me. "Smile, love. This is supposed to be fun."
The warmth of his words brushed my ear. That combined with the sound of his voice sent a shiver of desire through me.
I didn't need that kind of distraction right now. Later, but not now. I was too busy waiting for someone to haul us away in handcuffs to be interrogated.
"I'm trying, sweetie."
He smiled. "I've never been a sweetie before. I find I rather like it."
"I'm so glad." I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at him. I was a nervous wreck and he was enjoying himself. It was maddening.
I saw a waiter go by with a tray of champagne glasses and I regretted his rule number one—no drinking anything because it could be drugged.
If I ever did anything like this again—and God I hoped I didn't have to—I was so bringing a flask. Because I could really use a nice stiff one right about now—drink that was, but the other kind of stiff one wouldn't be so bad later.
That thought sent my mind to bad places and I wondered what Tristan looked like under that suit. Probably completely ripped from going to the gym. All six-pack abs and lean muscles.
My last boyfriend had started to get a beer belly from too many six-packs, so I'd really enjoy running my hands over what I imagined would be Tristan's washboard stomach.
As my thoughts bounced between various topics, some more ridiculous than others, we were on the move again.
Tristan pressed his palm against my lower back as he guided me forward, across the large room and into the crowd when I so much would rather head away from it. Like to some nice quiet corner where I could hide and observe without having to be seen.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"The bar."
To get a cocktail I wasn't allowed to drink? I held in a sigh. Yup, definitely the perfect occasion for a flask. I was adding that to my emergency spy kit. Since they didn't even search us at the door, I supposed I could have brought that gun I didn't yet own too. Or at least my pepper spray. Lesson learned.
"Two whisky, neat."
Whisky? I’d never drink that and definitely not without even some ice or water or something in it. But of course, ice in the potted plant after we dumped the drinks we were supposed to be drinking would be too obvious. And there’d be less liquid to dump if it wasn’t mixed with water.
So much to learn. I wondered if there was some sort of book I could study. Spying for Dummies. If there wasn't, somebody should write it.
Tristan turned and handed me one of the two drinks.
He raised his own in a toast and then pressed the glass to his lips as my eyes widened.
I watched him tip the glass, I even saw his throat work as he swallowed, but with as closely as I was watching, I could see he hadn't really consumed any. He only pretended.
This was all too nerve wracking. With my luck I'd end up pouring the scotch down the front of me. Or worse, accidentally drink some and possibly be drugged or poisoned.
"Tristan. Pleasure to see you again."
The sound of someone saying his name had me spinning so fast, the possibly drugged scotch I didn't want anyway splashed over my hand.
Luckily, Tristan was a little cooler in his response.
While I gratefully put the glass down and grabbed a cocktail napkin from the bar, he extended one hand to the man. "Gregory. Pleasure. Let me introduce you to my fiancée, Chelsea. Chelsea, this is Gregory Fedorov, an old acquaintance."
Acquaintance. What did that mean? Was this the hand off? Was Gregory a spy too? An ally or a foe?
The room felt hot suddenly. Was I going to pass out? Jesus, what if I did? I was supposed to act as a distraction. My fainting would certainly be that so maybe it wouldn't mess up everything.
I felt myself sway just as Tristan wrapped one arm around my waist and held me close to his side.
"Chelsea, how nice to meet you. And Tristan, you devil. Engaged and I'm just now hearing of it."
Thank God this Gregory Fedorov, whoever he was, had moved right from greeting me to focusing on Tristan again.
All I had time to do was force a smile in response, though I no doubt looked like a deer in headlights. I sure as hell felt like one.
"Eh, I'm smart enough to keep my lady far away from you," Tristan joked, though I didn't understand it. Gregory wasn't even handsome. Nothing compared to Tristan's masculine perfection.
Maybe he was rich. Or worse, dangerous. My head felt fuzzy again at that thought.
I needed to stop thinking. It wasn't helping.
In fact, with every question and answering theory that flew though my brain, things seemed worse. Scarier. More impossible.
That was it. No more thinking. I drew in a breath and focused completely on Tristan. His smell—something good and manly. Like the scent of leather and Christmas mixed together. His voice—so sexy and soothing even in its cultured precision.
"Right, love?"
And how he was calling me love. I absolutely loved when British men said that—wait. Shit!
Tristan must have asked me something and I'd missed it. Hoping it was the right answer, I took a shot and said, "Right, sweetie."
He smiled. "She isn't always so agreeable. My American has a mind of her own. She definitely keeps me on my toes."
Gregory let out a bark of a laugh and, shaking his head, said, "They all do, Fairchild. They all do."
"Americans? Or women?" I asked as Gregory's comment, delivered with just the slightest hint of a foreign accent, rubbed me the wrong way.
He lifted his bushy eyebrows as he m
oved his gaze from me to Tristan. "I see what you mean."
With my back stiff and my temper spiking, I decided to keep my mouth shut. I didn't need a repeat of the Camelot confrontation that had lost me my job there. This job, with GAPS, I actually liked too much to lose.
A glance at Tristan revealed he was smiling. "It's one of the things that made me fall in love with her."
He ran his hand up my back to cradle the nape of my neck, leaned in and pressed a kiss to my lips.
It was quick but man it packed a punch.
The kiss, in conjunction with his talking about love—even if it was all part of our act—had me ready to drag him off to find the coatroom, peel off my pants and his and let him have his way with me.
Gregory cleared his throat and drew my attention off my fantasy. "So, Fairchild, how long you in town for?"
"Just a few days."
Gregory tipped his head to stare at me, just when I'd rather he didn't. "And do you travel with him?"
Stick close to the truth whenever possible. Wasn't that what Tristan had said? I tried to do that without painting us into a corner with my lies. "I haven't been, but now that we're engaged I imagine that will change."
Tristan nodded. "Yes, and certainly once we're married."
"Definitely." I nodded. "Though I will miss the long distance opportunities for phone sex."
As Gregory choked on the swallow of the drink he’d just taken, Tristan stepped forward to slap him on the back.
I knew I was behaving badly, but I could barely contain my smile. This man irritated me and I couldn’t seem to control myself. I only hoped my smart-ass comment didn’t get us in deep shit.
"Are you all right?" Tristan asked him.
The older man, eyes watering from the coughing fit, raised his gaze to me before saying, "Yes. Quite."
My lips twitched but I decided to be good since I still didn't know who this guy was to Tristan. Judging by how relaxed he was acting around him, he couldn't be a threat.
Of course, Tristan could just be a really good actor. Better than me apparently. I couldn't even keep my attitude in check when we could possibly be in a life and death situation here.
Funny how my nerves had calmed the moment I'd started to get pissed. Interesting. It might be a tactic I could use in the future. It might even help me combat the stage fright I always got right before the curtain.
I'd have to look into it further. Right now, I wrestled my wayward thoughts back to Tristan to watch for clues since I didn't know when this hand off would happen or from whom.
"Good talking to you, Fairchild. Pleasure meeting you, miss. I see someone I need to speak with." Gregory was apparently tired of us. That was a relief.
As he ditched us and made his way across the room, I turned to Tristan. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself."
He broke into a wide smile. "Don't apologize. Gregory can be a real knob. I quite enjoyed seeing you fluster him."
From the context I guessed that a knob was the British equivalent of a dickhead and said, "Good. I was afraid I'd messed up."
"Not at all." With another smile, Tristan laid his hand on my arm. "Ready to go?"
I frowned. "Go?"
"Yes." He nodded while planting his still full glass of whisky on a passing waiter's tray. With both his hands now free, he cupped my elbow and began steering me toward the door with a gentle pressure, which got a bit firmer as I dug my heels into the carpet.
"Wait. But what about . . . you know." I widened my eyes and lowered my voice on the last words.
"Yes, I do know. We're done here." When I still didn't budge, he laughed. "Do you think we can discuss this in the car? Because I really don't want to be here any longer."
It did feel like things had gone too smoothly. I didn't want to tempt fate by staying any longer than we had to. If he said we could go, I was ready to go.
"Okay." Now that I'd made the decision, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
I strode toward the exit, employing every inch of my long legs until Tristan grasped my hand and slowed me down.
"Chelsea. We're not fleeing. Just leaving," he said as we neared the door.
I forced myself to slow. That's right. We were just leaving. Nice and casual.
On the way out the door he nodded to the woman who'd checked us in. I held my breath until she smiled and then turned her attention to a couple who'd approached her.
She didn't yell for security even though to me it seemed suspicious we'd come in and then left so quickly.
Still, I kept looking over my shoulder because I expected some gun wielding foreign agents to pursue us at any moment.
Tristan's car was parked at the curb when we arrived.
None of the other cars were there. I frowned at it, and then glanced at him. "How did the valet know to have your car here?"
"Please, Chelsea. Just get in." His tone was pleading and for once, I did as I was told, without question.
EIGHT
I was still watching for pursuers who never materialized when he pulled the car away from the curb.
It wasn't until we were well down the block and the Ambassador's Residence was no longer in sight that I stopped looking behind us.
I glanced at Tristan and found him shaking his head.
"You really are not very good about hiding your thoughts, you know," he said.
That I knew. But even if I had been, these were particularly challenging circumstances. We could have been chased or worse. But I wasn't in the mood to remind him of that. What I wanted was answers.
"When did you make the hand off?" I asked.
"I didn't make it. I received it. And at the bar."
"From who? The only one standing near you was me."
"That's not true."
I thought back and it struck me. "The bartender."
"Yes." He tipped his head as he slowed for a light.
"But I didn't see him hand you anything."
He laughed. "What exactly do you think it was I was being given?"
"I don't know. Documents. A note." My eyes flew wide as an idea hit. "Ooo, was it written on the cocktail napkin?" I guessed.
Tristan's laugh was louder and longer than before. "You're adorable."
I frowned at what didn't seem like a compliment.
Glancing at me, he finally said, "It was a microchip."
I nearly slapped myself in the forehead. I'd watched too many old black and white spy movies. Of course it was a microchip. Jeez. I really needed that Spying 101 book.
He turned to me again. "You did well."
I felt the pout form on my lips. "No, I didn't." I was lucky I didn't get us caught.
"You did exactly as I needed you to. You distracted Gregory."
"Gregory?" My voice rose to a squeak. "He was the guy I was there to distract?" The man I'd made spit his drink by being sassy? Jesus.
"Yes. One of them, anyway" he answered.
Another thought hit me. "Who were you hiding from when we first arrived? When you, uh, kissed me."
I still felt the imprint of that kiss seared on my lips.
"Ah, that. She was a woman I'd gotten close to and things didn't end quite as she would have liked."
"The Housewives of New Jersey chick?" I asked, intrigued and a little envious of this woman. More than a little, actually.
"No." He laughed. "The woman at the embassy party tonight was a professional entanglement. Housewives chick, as you call her, was a personal one. An error in judgment on my part."
Exactly how many women was Tristan entangled with? Apparently so many that he had to categorize them.
It was pretty obvious which column I fell into. But that was the least of my worries right now. Gregory was the bad guy. Right in front of me. And I didn't even know.
Tristan glanced in my direction. "Are you feeling all right? You look as if you might faint."
"I feel that way." I twisted in my seat to face him as best I could with the seatbelt on. "Why didn't you tell m
e about Gregory? I could have blown it."
"You were perfect. Just the right distraction."
"But who is he?"
Tristan eyed me, looking as if he was considering his words. "Let's just say he's working toward different goals than I am."
Well that was clear as mud.
"And what goals are you working toward?" I asked.
I really knew nothing about this man. I could have just helped him buy US secrets that he was about to hand over to the KGB for all I knew.
Was the KGB still even a thing? I needed to research this stuff if working for GAPS was going to put me in these situations.
"Home, sweet home." He pulled up in front of my building and shifted the car into park and I realized that once again he’d avoided answering me.
Damn. Why did he have to be so hot? There was a very good chance he was a bad guy. And I'd just helped him because I was swayed by his charm.
I was about to really panic about that possibility when his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his breast pocket and glanced at the display, smiling as he looked at me. "There's the devil himself. It's your boss." He punched the screen and pressed it to his ear. "Zane Alexander, where in the bloody hell are you?"
He listened for a bit, nodding occasionally as I strained to hear the other side of the conversation, but the bastard kept his volume down too low.
"I suppose I can forgive you for being out of the country when I needed your unique services since your girl Chelsea worked out perfectly . . . Yes, Chelsea from your office. She did quite well actually. I'll tell you about it over drinks next time we're both in town."
I waited. For Zane to freak out. For Tristan to learn I was the office manager and not an experienced operator as he'd assumed. For something, anything to happen.
And then my worst fears came true. Tristan held the phone out to me and said, "He'd like to speak with you."
My eyes went wide as I took the cell with less than a steady hand. "Hello?"
"So, it sounds like you've been busy." Was that amusement or annoyance I heard in my boss’s tone?
"I'm so sorry. I tried to call you. I even called the other office. I didn't know what to do. If I should help or not. If I was even supposed to."
"Chelsea, relax. You're not in trouble. I'm just surprised."
