“Do you still cook with her?”
“Not really. We usually go out to eat when they’re in town. I try to visit them a few times a year, but with my schedule …” He shrugged, but the skin around his eyes had tightened.
“What do they think you do?”
“Private security. It explains the travel and odd hours.”
“That must be hard, not being able to tell the people closest to you so much about your life.”
“You get used to it.”
“Maybe.”
He drizzled some olive oil in a pan and flipped the burner on then turned to me. “Enough about me. Tell me about you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you already know everything? I thought the CIA gave you a file on me.”
“They did, but that only tells me facts. Your biography. Medical history. A basic psychological profile …”
I gaped at him. “You have my medical records and a psych profile? I’ve never even seen a psychologist.”
“The point is, I want to know the other stuff. Tell me about you, Ainsley Winters.”
I wasn’t done with the medical records and psych profile thing, but then that cursed cheek dimple appeared again, and I melted. Forget threats and torture, if he kept smiling like that I’d have happily given him my bank pin number, all of my passwords, and my eighth-grade locker combination if he asked for them.
So while he cooked, I talked. I told him stories of growing up with my brother, of my nephews and their shenanigans, of Aunt Belinda and the time my dad, out of sheer exasperation, told her to knock before she walked inside my parents’ house, and she responded by cursing Dad’s closet so that his clothes erupted in polka dots for a month every time he left the house.
Occasionally Ryerson would give me small things to do—measuring out the soy sauce, vinegar and sugar, pouring the wine, taste testing the sauce (yum)—but mostly I just talked. He smiled and asked questions and even laughed once when I told him about the time the twins kept a secret menagerie of creepy crawlies in the kitchen cabinet where my brother and his wife kept their pots and pans.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because Beth—that’s Alec’s sister and my brother Josh’s wife—told them they could have a dog once they proved they were responsible enough to care for it, and the pots and pans cabinet was the only place they didn’t think she’d look. Their plan was to show her they could keep the bugs alive. They wanted it to be a surprise. It was.”
It was going so well that I even slipped in a story about Alec. About the time Josh got caught stealing a pair of earbuds from the store, and how Alec had refused to leave him, and even tried to take the blame. It was risky, bringing up Alec. But he did say he wanted to know more about me, and Alec had been a big part of my life for a long time. Still was, in a lot of ways. Besides, I wasn’t done trying to convince them they needed each other, and reminding Ryerson of Alec’s good qualities couldn’t hurt.
Or so I thought.
Ryerson’s eyes darkened at the mention of Alec, and his smile slipped, but he didn’t stop me. When I was done, he poked a wooden spatula at the chicken pieces sizzling in the pan. He flipped a few of them and adjusted the burner then leaned his hips against the countertop across from me.
“A few years ago, Alec and I were assigned to retrieve … an item of some importance, from a militia group. They were holed up in the jungle. We managed to infiltrate their compound and recover the item, but getting out again was messy. I was shot in the leg. Protocol dictated that Alec leave me behind. That his first priority was to secure the item. I told him to go, but he refused. He got me out of that jungle, but we lost the item.”
“So he broke protocol to save your life,” I said. That didn’t sound so bad. But from the way his grip tightened on the edge of the countertop behind him, I had a bad feeling he didn’t see it that way.
“He did. And a week later, another team went back for it. The militia knew we were coming now, and they were ready. We sent four men. None of them survived.”
I set down my glass.
His eyes flashed. “If Alec had followed protocol, only I would have died. Not four of our guys.”
“Ry—”
“They had families, Ainsley. Two of them were married, one had kids. One had a sick father who depended on him.”
I swallowed the lump of sadness that rose in my throat and eased off the stool. “That’s awful. But it’s not Alec’s fault.”
He snorted and shook his head.
“It’s not his fault,” I said again slowly, “and it’s not yours either.”
His head snapped up, his gaze meeting mine. There was anger there, and something else. Something deeper. Guilt.
“Is that when this thing between you two started?” I said softly.
Ryerson looked away. Maybe needing something else to focus on, he checked on the chicken. “I don’t know. Maybe. Right after that—hell, probably because of it—Alec was reassigned to an undercover op in Russia, and I was transferred around and landed in the MPD. You know the rest.”
I did know. I’d read Alec’s file. The parts that weren’t redacted, at least. Which was most of it, including everything about his mission in Russia. According to the official report, Alec had been sent on one mission after his return from Russia. During that mission, he murdered the other five members of his team and then fled. There had been an investigation, of course. Most of that was redacted, too, but there were enough key words left that I got the gist: the CIA’s official working theory was that Alec had gone bat-crap crazy.
“Sometimes you do whatever it takes to protect the people you love,” I said softly.
Ryerson’s expression was stone. “And sometimes you follow protocol to get the job done. Like you did.”
I winced. “If I had to do it over, I don’t think I would have left.” I couldn’t. Not again.
Ryerson’s jaw worked.
“Look,” I said, “Alec—”
“—killed five agents and fled the country.”
Yeah, about that. “I’ve been thinking about that. Does it really make sense to you that he would have done that? I mean, you’ve seen him since then. Does he really seem crazy to you?”
Ryerson grabbed a knife off the counter and chopped through an onion, the blade an angry blur. When he was done, he swept the onion bits aside and blew out a deep breath. “Who the hell knows why Alec does what he does?”
I was the first to admit, I usually had no idea why Alec did what he did. But his reasons always became clear later. Usually. Sometimes.
“He’s saved your life half a dozen times in the last two weeks.”
“I know.” He shook his head. “I just … I don’t know what to think about Alec anymore.”
I blinked at him. It was progress. “What do you—”
“Look,” Ryerson said, setting down the knife. “Just once, can we not talk about Alec?”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just … I know how you feel about him. It’s in your file. And I’d rather not be reminded of it every time I’m with you.”
I sat back down, stunned. I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d reached across the table and slapped me. He glanced up then shook his head.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I said, my voice ice. “But since you did, let’s talk about that. About how just ten minutes ago you said all you know about me is what’s in my file. That you don’t know anything personal. Well, that’s pretty personal, don’t you think?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
But I was on a roll. “Goddess, for a spy, you’re pretty thick. Yes, I had a crush on Alec. For years, actually. I was devastated when I thought he had died. And then just like that, he was back in my life. And it was all so confusing. But then he kissed me yesterday, and everything became clear. Because Alec is everything I ever thought I wanted, but I was wrong. He�
��s not frustrating and stubborn and maddening. He’s not you. And if you would stop trying to kill him all the time, maybe you would have noticed that.”
I was leaning forward, my hands pressing into the countertop. Ryerson just stared at me. That’s about the time my brain caught up to my words, and I realized what I’d just done. Laid it all on the line, without even meaning to.
I eased back, swallowing hard.
“Say something,” I said.
“Alec kissed you?”
I blinked at him. “That’s what you took from that?”
“Yes. I mean no.” He shook his head and gave me a rueful look. “I’m screwing this up, aren’t I?”
I wasn’t sure what “this” was. I had a better idea when he rounded the counter and was suddenly right there. I looked up into intense green eyes, and my heart thumped so loudly I was sure he’d hear it.
“What are you doing?” It came out as a whisper.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “If you don’t know, then I’m definitely not doing this right.”
His hands curved around my neck, cupping my head, fingers pushing through my hair. I barely had time to assure myself this was really happening, and then his lips were on mine. Soft, tender even, almost like he’d fantasized about this moment as much as I had, and now that it was here, he wanted to savor every moment, every sweet taste. I leaned into him, wrapping my hands in his shirtfront and tugging him closer. I felt his smile against my lips, and then the kiss deepened. My hands moved over the ridges of his abs, pulling a sound from the back of his throat. The kiss itself was sweet one moment, demanding the next, just like the man himself, and I lost myself in it. In him. His hands moved down my arms, to my hips, pulling me against him until he stood between my legs, and then the only thing separating us was our clothing. Clothes that suddenly felt way too confining.
A sharp bark filled the air, and we broke the kiss to find a very big, very furry audience.
“Damn dog,” Ryerson muttered, rubbing Oreo’s furry head affectionately. Then a little clay head popped up behind his ear, making kissing noises. Ryerson barked a laugh and then turned back to me, his voice still rough as he said, “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
“Since the first time you laid eyes on me?”
“Well, no. The first time I saw you I was love cursed, and you hexed someone right in front of me.”
“The second time, then?”
“Er, not exactly.”
I pulled back and frowned at him.
“What?” he said defensively. “I was still love cursed, and you tried to spell me.”
“You broke into my apartment,” I reminded him.
He grinned. “Yes. And you threatened me with a wine bottle and a flying chipmunk.”
“Jinx is a sugar glider. And you burned my chicken.”
“What?”
I nodded, somewhat reluctantly, at the stove, where smoke billowed up from the pan.
Ryerson cursed and went to rescue his chicken.
And me? I couldn’t stop smiling.
31
The kung pao chicken was delicious, if a little burnt.
After dinner, I managed to find Taken on an Algerian streaming service, and we spent the evening on the couch, me curled against Ryerson’s side, his arm around me while he told me all the things wrong with the movie. I fell asleep that way. It was the best sleep I’d gotten in weeks.
In the morning, someone shook me awake.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. I have a present for you.”
I pushed up on the couch, blinking against the sun streaming in through the windows. A blanket slid down to my lap. I didn’t remember putting it there. Ryerson must have covered me after I’d fallen asleep. How sweet was that?
Once my eyes adjusted, I looked up to find Ryerson waving passports at me.
Best present ever.
I grabbed one. “This is so much better than flowers.”
“Noted,” he said drily.
I opened my passport and frowned at my fake name. “Seriously?” I said.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It sounds so frumpy.”
“It’s realistic,” he argued.
“I’d make a way more convincing Latasha. Or a Raven.”
“Raven, huh?” He curled a lock of my white-blonde hair around his finger, and my stomach did a funny flip.
“Okay, bad example. What’s your name?”
He handed me his passport. I opened it then waved it at him. “See? How come you get to be Derek Wilde and I’m Fanny Doyle?”
“There aren’t many frumpy guy names.”
“Herbie Hinderstein. Ira Frankowski. Morton Gross.”
He laughed and leaned over the couch, touching his lips to mine as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and I decided then and there he could call me whatever he wanted as long as it got that kind of reaction. “I didn’t pick the names this time.” He stood and reached out a hand to help me up. “Come on, Latasha. Let’s clean up. Our flight leaves in an hour.”
Right. Back to the real world. Ryerson went to gather our things, but I sat on the couch a moment longer, savoring.
Things were kind of perfect right now. Well, except that Alec had disappeared himself again, Zoe was part of a shadow organization attempting to thwart the CIA and steal the book for their own undoubtedly nefarious purposes, and Golem and Oreo were traipsing about the underworld. But Ryerson and I were never better. What would happen when we got back to the States?
Maybe “perfect” was a strong word.
The flight to DC was uneventful. No one stopped us at customs, no one pulled us off the plane, and no one attacked us mid-flight. After the week we’d had, it was all rather anticlimactic.
The flight was nearly full, and our tickets were last minute, so Ryerson and I weren’t seated together. That was okay. It gave me time to think. About Zoe and how I was going to convince the CIA she wasn’t a traitor. About Alec and when he would make his move on the Grimoire, and if he’d even want to destroy it when he found out I hadn’t found the werewolf counter-curse. But mostly about Ryerson and what last night meant for us.
A girl could drive herself crazy thinking about what-ifs, so I distracted myself by planning what I would say to Director Abrams to convince him to make me a full-fledged spy. By the time we landed, I’d memorized a whole speech, called Zoe a dozen times (straight to voicemail), and spent the rest of the flight imagining Alec stowed away in the cargo hold, rooting through the luggage for the Grimoire, and then launching himself out through the landing gear with a parachute strapped to his back. Of course, Ryerson hadn’t taken any chances, and the Grimoire was tucked safely away in the backpack at his feet, but Alec didn’t know that.
At Dulles airport, we rented a car and drove to headquarters. No one even tried to stop us. Just in case, I kept a sharp eye out for rooftop assassins and pointed out suspicious-looking cars, much to Ryerson’s amusement.
“They could be assassins, you don’t know,” I said grumpily when he laughed at my latest suspect.
“The minivan with the honor student bumper sticker?”
“Assassins can have honor student kids too.”
His smile widened.
“You’re in an awfully good mood,” I said suspiciously.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” I abandoned my search for wayward hit men and twisted in the seat to face him. “What’s up with you?”
He glanced at me, his grin still firmly in place. “Maybe I’m just happy.”
“Because we have the Grimoire?”
“Because I have you.”
A warm feeling spread through me.
Then he went and ruined it.
“And because this mission is almost over, and we won’t be working together anymore. Which means I can be with you. And take you out on an actual date.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Probably not the reaction he was expecting, but is t
hat what he really thought? That I would be a civilian again by the end of the day? Is that why he chose last night to finally tell me how he felt? And how would he feel when I asked Director Abrams to make my position with the CIA a permanent one?
I wanted to ask him all of these questions, but I didn’t know where to start. And then we were pulling into the parking lot, and I knew this conversation would have to wait. Ryerson chose a spot close to the building, and we walked into CIA headquarters.
Despite the knot in my stomach from our unfinished conversation, I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as we rode the elevator to the seventh floor and Director Abrams’s office.
We’d done it. The mission was successful. Alec hadn’t shown up to steal the book back, and even he would have a hard time stealing it out of CIA headquarters.
Director Abrams’s receptionist was a steel-haired woman with sharp features and sharper eyes, seated behind a desk in the waiting area outside his office. Ryerson approached her and gave our names.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you right now. Director Abrams is in a meeting off-site. You’ll have to schedule an appointment.”
“I’m certain he’ll want to see us. Why don’t you call him?”
Her eyes narrowed. “As I said, he’s in a meeting. You’re welcome to schedule an appointment and come back then.”
Ryerson smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Ryerson may be pretty, but charm was not his thing. Something he proved when he leaned over the desk and hit the speaker button on her phone. He punched in a number and gave her a look, daring her to do something about it.
She looked mad enough she just might try.
I put a hand on Ryerson’s arm and said to her, “I promise we’re not crazy.”
She looked unconvinced, but she didn’t reach for the phone.
“What is it, Dorothea?” Director Abrams’s gruff voice came over the line. “You know I’m in a meeting.”
“It’s Agent Ryerson and Ms. Winters, Director,” Ryerson said.
There was a pause, followed by the sound of muffled movement and conversation. Director Abrams covering the phone while he excused himself from his meeting, probably.
You Only Spell Twic Page 24
