Frontline

by Alexandra Richland

  “You’re a very brave girl.”

  “There is an even more important reason.” Svetlana props her elbows on the table again and rests her chin in her right palm, then leans forward over the table, a slight smirk on her lips. Her white blouse, unbuttoned to the middle of her chest, droops low enough that Randall gets a peek at her ample cleavage. He feels the tip of her toe rub against his shin beneath the table. “I like British men.”

  Randall shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  “So to business then, as you suggested?” Svetlana reaches into her purse, twists open a stick of rouge, and applies it to her lips. She purses them together, smearing the color evenly between the top and bottom, then runs her tongue over them slowly when finished, leaving her smile glistening.

  “Yes, Miss Babkin,” Randall says. “To business.”

  She stands and motions to the dining room exit. “Please accompany me.”

  The room she leads him into is only big enough to fit a single bed, a small night table next to it beneath an open window, a dresser against the opposite wall and a porcelain pedestal sink built into the corner directly behind the door, so out of place in the absence of a toilet or shower, it would seem an afterthought.

  “We will drink vodka?” Svetlana crouches and procures a bottle from the night table and two clear shot glasses.

  Randall clicks his tongue and makes a stern tsk tsk. “Miss Babkin, I’m surprised at you.”

  Her eyebrows knit together. “What for?”

  “Here we are in Newcastle, a short skip south of Scotland, where you work and reside, and where the world’s most famous single malts are produced.” Randall pulls from his pocket a small bottle, its contents a dark, thin liquid. The seal around the cap cracks as he unscrews it. He tips the bottle over the first shot glass.

  Svetlana sits on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, her eyes glued to the shiny black liquid gurgling from the tip of the bottle.

  “England may produce its share of fine beers and ales, but when it comes to single malts of the finest quality . . .” Randall begins filling the second glass. “ . . . A sensuous spirit complex in its simplicity, finely finished in its rusticity, subtle in its provocation, but overwhelming in its refreshment . . .” He sets the bottle on the night table, hands Svetlana the first glass and takes the second, raising it in a toast. “ . . . We put our faith in the Scots.”

  Svetlana clinks her glass to the side of Randall’s. “To sensuous spirits.”

  The scotch ignites a trail of fire as it slides down their throats. Svetlana presses the back of her hand to her lips and takes a second deeper swallow to clear it. Tears well in her eyes.

  “Bozhemoy!”

  “I couldn’t have said it better.”

  Svetlana slides her glass onto the night table, uncrosses her legs, and leans back on the mattress, propping herself up on her elbows. Her breasts press against her blouse. A red bra glows through the thin, white fabric.

  Randall pours another shot and hands it to her.

  “Come sit, Randall.” Svetlana pats the mattress.

  “I dare not, Miss Babkin.”

  “And why is that? Are you still afraid I want to make you my husband?” She tilts her head back, opens her mouth and pours the shot straight down her throat.

  “It would be most unprofessional of me, madam. I fear I’m breaking protocol already by sharing a drink on duty.”

  “Duty? Ha!” She points to the bottle of scotch and slams the shot glass onto the night table. Randall refills it.

  “It is your duty to entertain me. Or else . . . perhaps . . . there may be no new information for me to offer.”

  Svetlana grabs hold of Randall’s belt buckle with her right hand and pulls him closer. With her left hand, she downs the third shot of scotch.

  “Careful, now.” Randall takes the glass from her and sets it back on the night table. “It’ll hit you all at once.”

  “And while I wait . . .” Svetlana yanks Randall’s belt through the buckle and unclasps the prong.

  Randall drops his scotch glass on the night table and grabs the waist of his pants with both hands before they slide to his knees.

  “Come now, Randall, do not be shy.” She pulls on his fly and slides the zipper to the bottom, revealing the front of his white cotton boxer shorts.

  “Ooooh.” Her fingers move to the button above his fly.

  Randall slides his hands along his waistband and catches her before the button loosens. “Another shot, madam?”

  “Yes, please, Randall!”

  He turns his back to her and refills both glasses. Svetlana skims her fingers down the front of her blouse, working quickly to undo each button.

  When Randall turns back to hand her the glass, he sees she has slipped out of her blouse and lies on the bed in a fiery red negligee that fits tight around her breasts and disappears beneath her black skirt. She takes the shot from Randall and downs it in one gulp.

  “Will you join me, Randall?” She pats the mattress beside her and raises her eyebrows.

  “Most tempting, Miss Babkin. However,” he glances at his wristwatch, “I really should be going. May I have the file you promised my organization?”

  Svetlana scowls and grabs Randall’s belt as he feeds it back through the buckle. “You will lie down with me, Randall, or I will not give file!”

  Randall sighs and voices further protest, but stops tightening his belt. Svetlana, sensing his eroding resolve, pulls him forward. His knees collide with the edge of the mattress and he lands on the bed next to her. She slides his pants to his ankles, plunges her hands up beneath his shirt, lifts it over his head, and tosses it to the floor beside the bed.

  TEN MINUTES LATER

  With colleges dismissed for summer, the streets of Newcastle Upon Tyne lay quiet and deserted. Randall feels bad for the angry racket his bike makes while it carries him across town. But for the streetlights and the occasional lamp burning behind a window curtain, the whole city seems lost in deep, dark sleep. He hopes the noise does nothing to disturb anyone.

  She’s still up when he parks in front of the café and cuts the engine. Randall sees the curtains draw back from the upstairs window and her face appear in it next to the bedside lamp. The light in the stairwell next to the café’s main entrance flicks on and she arrives at the bottom of the stairs bundled in a pink flannel gown. As soon as she unlocks the door, he steps inside.

  “You’re shivering.” Laura cups his rosy cheeks in her hands and stands on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips. She recoils. “Oh, my Lord! Whiskey, Randall? Really?”

  Randall smirks. “I love a woman who knows her single malts.”

  Laura’s eyes narrow. “Did her tongue need some loosening, then?”

  “I’d say she was quite loose enough.”

  Laura gasps and swats Randall’s arm. “You didn’t!”

  “I didn’t. I promise.”

  They share a smile and a giggle before embracing again. Laura’s arms barely fit around Randall’s shoulders, his thick leather jacket adding to his bulk.

  “Philip didn’t come back, did he?” Randall asks.

  “No, I didn’t see him again after you left.”

  “I wondered if he saw through our ruse. He’s a crafty old bastard.”

  Laura scrunches her nose. “He’s dreadful!”

  “You did well. For a moment during all that, I truly thought you didn’t know me.”

  “You’re not an easy one to forget, Agent Lone Eagle.”

  Laura locks the door and they climb the stairs to her apartment together, her arm entwined in his.

  “So did it go all right?” she inquires. “I was worried, but you seem in one piece.”

  “It wasn’t dangerous, just a meeting to collect some information. Still, nice to finally get around to some agent-y things, that’s for sure.”

  “And you have to report to someone?”

  They step inside her apartment door at the top of the stairs. The entrance
, carpeted in frayed orange shag, leads to a small kitchenette where Randall eases out of his jacket, sets it on the back of a chair at the kitchen table, and slumps onto the seat.

  “I need to write something up in the morning and send it along with the dossier,” he says. “Had a look at the information. Couldn’t understand a thing they were talking about.”

  “Classified info, love. They’ll share it with you someday, I’m sure.” Laura stands behind his chair and kisses him on his right cheek. “Did the whiskey come with a free sample of strawberry perfume, then?”

  Randall laughs as Laura lowers herself onto his right leg. He wraps his arms around her waist, leans up and kisses her neck.

  “Oh no, she was quite willing to rub hers off onto me.”

  Laura pulls back from Randall’s kisses and glares at him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Come on, lass, you can’t expect a woman to resist me.”

  “Watch me.”

  Laura struggles against Randall’s hold around her waist, but he tightens his arms so she can barely budge and moves his kisses to her chest. Her robe parts slightly. Randall sees she’s not wearing a bra.

  “Am I to believe this mere flannel robe is all that separates me from all of you?”

  Laura clasps both pieces of her robe together with her right hand. “That and the need for some sleep. I’ve an early morning. I’m covering Mary’s shift for breakfast.” She stands and tightens the flannel belt around her waist. “Not that I think I’ll actually get any. I’ve worried about you so all night. I’m pent up and wired like I’ve drunk ten coffees.” She steps toward the cupboard above the stovetop. “I wonder if I have any sleeping pills?”

  “A few hours ago, I’d have had some. But I’m afraid another woman across town is the beneficiary of a good night’s sleep courtesy of those.”

  Randall pulls Philip’s emergency bag from the inside pocket of his leather coat, stands, and approaches Laura. Over a foot taller than her, he loves the way her arms wrap around his waist and her head rests against him.

  “Whiskey and sleeping pills?” Laura shakes her head. “That can’t have ended well.”

  “She’s fine. She’ll have a right smarting headache in the morning, though.”

  “And what did she do to deserve all of that?” Laura buries her face in Randall’s chest, but he places two fingers beneath her chin and guides her face back up to his.

  “She tried to make me forget about you.”

  Laura springs to her tiptoes again and kisses Randall so deeply, he loses his balance and the emergency bag he holds drops to the floor.

  “Well, who needs a good night’s sleep anyway?” she murmurs.

  Randall scoops her tiny body into his arms and carries her toward the bedroom, even managing to flick the kitchen light off on their way out. Darkness swallows the apartment but the ensuing hours of the night are anything but quiet. If the noises Randall makes with Laura disturb any of the neighbors, he doesn’t feel bad at all.

  About The Author

  Alexandra Richland spends rotating twelve-hour shifts working as a registered nurse at a Toronto hospital, indulging in her love of science and medicine, and caring for patients with their own unique tales to tell. When she is not on duty, Alexandra escapes into her own imagination. Therein lies a fantasy world of thrilling adventure, gorgeous men, classic Hollywood glamour, exotic getaways, and a seductive dose of romance. Alexandra captures these stories in her popular novels, The Starlight Trilogy and Frontline, and her short story, Gilded Cage.

  Say hello to her on Facebook www.facebook.com/Ms.AlexandraRichland and on Twitter http://www.twitter.com/RebelMissAlex