Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1)

by Paula Altenburg

  So did she. Her father might not be perfect, but she loved him. She needed to know he was safe.

  She smoothed the front of Garrett’s shirt with the palms of her hands. Her heart settled back to its usual rhythm. She’d always prided herself on her reserve and ability to remain calm in most situations. She could resist a man who was playing games with her.

  “We’re going to be late,” she said.

  His eyes filled with humor. “We can’t have that happen.”

  He was laughing at her. He made no comment about her avoiding his question, however. Instead, he stepped out of the way so she could pass by.

  Chapter Four

  Garrett gave her credit. It didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere with her the old-fashioned way. Kissing her—flirting—wasn’t the right approach.

  He was willing to give it another shot though, just to be sure.

  He wheeled Peter’s ancient fifteen-speed bicycle out of the garage attached to the house and walked it down the driveway. The sun had only half-cleared the cloudless horizon as of yet, and the early morning air was cool and fresh, perfect for running. Dew sparkled on the front lawn. A tiny breath of wind ruffled the silver leaves on the poplars. In the distance, beyond a low hill, the muted roar of machinery told him the farm was already awake and at work.

  Isabelle waited for him on the shoulder of the road, swinging her arms, all long, lean muscle and feminine curves.

  He liked her, he discovered. The quiet, solid, comforting calmness of her. The unembellished prettiness and subtle sense of humor. The fearlessness. No, not so much fearlessness, as confidence and independence. Sandwiched smack in the middle of it all, however, was a thin layer of vulnerability. Every once in a while, when she thought no one was looking, he’d catch tiny sparkles of it, like bits of broken glass embedded in steel. She brought out every male instinct he owned—a disquieting discovery, because he’d have thought honesty would carry more weight with him.

  He reminded his instincts that he’d caught her red-handed trying to sell her passport.

  In order to survive, they whispered back.

  At dinner last night, his sister had noticed his interest as more than casual curiosity and taken him aside to issue a warning. “Don’t screw around with Isabelle, Garrett. I mean it. The kids like her and so do I. Peter does, too.”

  So it was unanimous. Everyone liked her. The trouble was, it was too easy to be taken in by conmen—or conwomen. Most people liked them. Garrett had met quite a few, and while Isabelle didn’t have the same kind of charisma, she had…something, and he wasn’t immune to it, either.

  “Ready?” he asked her, straddling the bicycle and testing the hand brakes. They were stiff but secure. Kind of like his knees.

  She nodded, then started out in long, easy strides, with all the fluid gracefulness of an experienced runner. Garrett followed along beside her, careful to let her set the pace and not push her too hard.

  “How long have you been running?” he asked.

  “Fourteen years.”

  Since she was ten. He hated running, so that boggled the mind. “Why so young?”

  She didn’t turn her head to look at him, and kept her words to a minimum, conserving her breath. “Something my father and I could do together.”

  “Does your father still run, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Garrett filed that piece of information away. It might or might not prove useful later on. Every little bit helped.

  Any more attempts at conversation died at the first hill. He hadn’t realized how many there were around here. For a long time the only sounds came from the humming of the bicycle tires, Isabelle’s measured breathing, the slap of her shoes’ rubber soles against asphalt, and the occasional car passing by.

  Garrett dropped behind her so he could watch her run, purely for pleasure. She held her back straight, her bent elbows chest high. The straight length of chestnut-colored ponytail danced rhythmically back and forth between her shoulder blades as her arms pumped. Her shorts, thin and worn with washings and age, clung to rounded buttocks and exposed a long length of upper thigh. Again, there was no single, standout feature about her that made him enjoy watching her so much. She was beautiful for her simplicity, a perfect daisy, rather than an ornamental rose.

  They reached the halfway point in her run and turned toward home. Traffic had begun to pick up as the neighbors, most of whom commuted to the city, began heading for work. By now, Garrett’s thigh muscles were screaming and his butt was sore. It had been a long time since he’d ridden a bicycle—longer, even, than his last run.

  When he judged they were almost a mile from the house he put on a burst of speed to get ahead of her, then dismounted and propped the bicycle in the bushes surrounding an oak tree so he could come back for it later. He fell into step beside her when she caught up.

  She’d maintained a steady pace from the beginning, but now she slowed.

  “You sure about this?” she asked him, a challenge in her eyes.

  “Hell, no. But if I sit on that bike any longer, I’ll be eating my meals standing up for the rest of the week.”

  She smiled at that, and without further comment, refocused her attention on the road.

  He wouldn’t claim running a mile was easy, especially not after biking more than five already, but five minutes in, he began to have faith he might make it. They’d almost reached the driveway, and his hopes remained high, when his hamstring seized. He stumbled, drawing up short, then bent at the waist with his leg extended as he tried to stretch it out.

  Isabelle stopped when she realized he was no longer beside her, turned around, and jogged back. “Did you pull a muscle?”

  “Tendon, I think.” He had no intention of telling her how bad it hurt—he was no sissy—but his sweating could no longer be blamed on either exercise or the rising heat.

  Her cocoa-brown eyes, soft and rich, shimmered with concern. “See if you can walk it out. Here. Let me help.”

  Before he could refuse, she’d slipped her arm around his waist and draped his over her shoulders. With her snuggled against him, he lost all interest in arguing the matter.

  He limped as far as the front lawn and eyed the door of the house. It looked ten miles away, but he figured he could make it under his own steam as long as he didn’t stop moving. The last thing he wanted was for Cheryl or Peter to catch him like this. He’d never hear the end of it.

  “The leg’s much better now,” he lied. “A hot shower and I’ll be good as new.”

  He was reluctant to let go of her, however. He still had his arm around her, and her expression as she peered up at him from beneath it said she wasn’t buying whatever he was trying to sell.

  He wanted to kiss her again.

  “Lie on the grass and I’ll help you stretch it first. Then you can shower,” she said.

  All of which brought up vivid images of much more than kissing.

  A car drove past. The driver waved to them. They waved back.

  “Not a chance,” Garrett replied. “Not out here for the whole world to see.”

  Her lips pressed together in a way that suggested she was trying hard not to laugh, but when she spoke, she sounded sympathetic. “You aren’t the first person to ever get a muscle cramp or pulled tendon from exercise, but we could go around the back of the house, if you’d prefer. Can you make it that far?”

  He would if it killed him.

  When they reached the back yard, Garrett collapsed on the grass. “If you’ve got suggestions for stretching it out, I’m willing to listen.”

  She knelt beside him. “Give me your foot.” He lifted it with a groan. She scooted over a few inches so that her hip touched the inside of his sound leg. She placed one hand under the calf of the sore leg, below his knee, the other on his thigh above it, so that the sole of his shoe rested against the flat front of her shoulder. “Now press your foot into me.”

  As he did, she rubbed the stiff muscles of his thigh and calf w
ith strong fingers. He groaned again, this time with pleasure. It felt amazing.

  He watched her face as she worked. Long lashes shielded her thoughts from him. A slight frown of concentration furrowed a vee between her brows. A thin sheen of perspiration coated her throat and upper chest, above the tank top and sports bra. His thoughts wandered in a far more dangerous direction. A little to the south.

  She tucked her hand under the heel of his shoe and forced his leg upward, stretching the hamstring. “Any better?” she asked.

  “Much.” He rested the back of his head on clasped hands, gazing up at her. “You’re full of all kinds of surprising talents. You could do this for a living.”

  “Believe it or not, I like looking after children more than massaging men’s thighs.”

  She let go of his foot. He planted it on the ground beside her, fencing her in between his bent knees. She sat back on her heels, but she didn’t stand up or push him away. He trailed the tips of his fingers up the length of her bare thigh to play with the hem of her shorts, telling himself he only wanted to see how far he could push her level of comfort.

  He got no more reaction than he had the day before, when he’d admired her in that bikini, or this morning, when he’d kissed her. She showed no outrage or discomfort. No interest, either. She gave no outward indication she was bothered by him.

  Not as much as he was by her.

  Yet he didn’t believe she was unaffected. If she were, she wouldn’t bother hiding her responses so well.

  “You can’t look after other people’s children forever, or keep traveling from country to country, taking low-end jobs,” he said, trying a different tactic. “Kids grow up and move on. What do you want to do with the rest of your life? Any burning desires?”

  “Cheryl says you’re a government program officer, and that you travel a lot,” Isabelle countered. “Does your work make you happy? Does it matter to you what the pay is?”

  Those were good questions. He wasn’t certain he had any answers. Being a program officer was part of his cover. It was what he told people he did, and in fact, he quite often carried out the duties assigned to the position. He liked his work with CSIS too, and while the money was good, it wasn’t the reason he’d accepted the job. Part of its appeal was in serving his country, although the thrill of the chase—and putting together pieces of a puzzle that led to an arrest and conviction—were what mattered the most. He also liked pushing limits.

  But he wouldn’t do any of it for free. Bills had to be paid. A man had to eat. He could guarantee her father wasn’t moving stolen military property out of the goodness of his heart either.

  He splayed his hand against the warmth of her thigh. He was going way too far now, but she had such smooth skin—soft—yet underneath, it was solid, sleek muscle. He wondered how she’d reacted when her employer in Thailand cornered her in the garden. If she’d been as cool about it as she’d been when he kissed her.

  He didn’t like the mental comparison.

  “Were you happy when I found you in Bangkok?” he asked.

  It was a jerk thing to say. A spark of emotion flared in her eyes, then was gone. She lifted his hand from her thigh, not answering his question. Pressing her palms to his knees, she pushed to her feet.

  “You are not finished stretching, monsieur. Maintenant. We’ve only got about fifteen minutes before I have to prepare breakfast.”

  He had his tell. Her English was impeccable, and spoken like a native Anglophone, yet she became more French—and very brisk—when she was rattled. He’d noticed it in Bangkok, and again when she dealt with the children in the pool yesterday, particularly Kiefer. They knew when she meant business.

  He blew out a loud sigh. “I was hoping you’d forget.” He held up a hand and she took it, steadying him as he stood. He tested the leg. The hamstring really did feel better. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She was unsympathetic as she showed him how to hold a few simple yoga poses. “I won’t make you practice the breathing this time. We’ll work on that another day.”

  As he made half-hearted attempts at the stretches, hoping no one in the house—meaning Peter—could see him, he watched her move through her own routine. Downward dog was one he recognized. From his angle and perspective, and level of appreciation, the pose was misnamed. It should have a much sexier label. While she made it look easy, there was no way his bulkier body would ever be as graceful at this as hers. He was equally certain no one was going to be seeing his ass in that same position.

  He tried to distract himself from the sight of hers by tallying up what he knew about her to add to his case file. She was smart, athletic, and unmotivated by money. At least, so she claimed. She wasn’t easily intimidated, and would do what she believed necessary in order to survive. Bangkok had proved that to him.

  Then he recalled what she’d said to him earlier. How she’d taken up running because it was something she could do with her father. In Bangkok, she’d told him that she and her father were no longer as close as they once were—that when he wanted to see her, he found her.

  The light bulb came on. Satisfaction hummed through him. That didn’t mean they were estranged. Isabelle wasn’t reaching out to her father because she really didn’t know where he was.

  Which meant Beausejour would be contacting her. But how?

  * * *

  Isabelle had scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh fruit waiting on the kitchen table by the time Cheryl, Peter, and the children came downstairs.

  Garrett had already gone for his shower. While the family ate, she ran upstairs to take hers.

  The next few weeks would be long ones. She didn’t know for sure what he hoped to achieve with the kisses, light touches, and admiring glances, but her thoughts and emotions tangled into all sorts of complicated knots when it came to him. He interested her. Excited her.

  Annoyed her.

  She should avoid him.

  Before she got in the shower, out of habit, she opened the laptop and went to etsy.com. She browsed a few items.

  And there it was. The message from her father that she’d been waiting for, hidden in a site for handcrafted gold rings. Her breath caught as she clicked on the link and discovered that the ring she chose was only available through backorder. The world began to spin. She sank to the floor, resting her cheek on bent knees.

  Backorder meant she couldn’t contact him unless there was an extreme emergency, which in turn, meant he’d gone into hiding. At least now she knew he was alive.

  It didn’t lessen her fear that he might not be for much longer. Garrett was right when he’d said she couldn’t continue to live this way. The important question wasn’t whether or not she’d been happy in Bangkok, however. It was if she was happy now. She wasn’t. She had no choice other than to continue to wait for her father.

  Peter had offered her this position for the summer, however. At best, she had another six weeks before the girls started school and Kiefer went back to daycare. If her father didn’t resurface by then, she’d have a limited amount of money in her pocket and nowhere to go.

  Without her passport, she wouldn’t be going very far.

  For a long time, she didn’t move. Then, she made her way to the shower. By the time she got dressed and returned to the kitchen, Garrett was alone at the breakfast table, drinking coffee. Cheryl and Peter had already left for the city. She could hear the children in the playroom, watching television.

  Her chest tightened at the sight of him. It was important he not realize anything was wrong, for her father’s sake if not her own. He read her far too easily.

  He held up a set of car keys.

  “We’re taking the kids sightseeing today,” he said. “Peter tells me you don’t drive, which means I get to chauffeur.”

  A girlfriend in South Africa had taught her how to drive an ancient field truck with a stick shift when they were thirteen or fourteen, but that was a long time ago, and besides, she didn’t know any Canadian rules of the road. She
’d been putting off learning, hoping to hear from her father, not knowing for certain how long she’d be here. She had no real reason to procrastinate anymore. Her stay in Canada could be indefinite.

  She tried to summon enthusiasm. “I’m planning to get my license. I’ve got a copy of the learner’s handbook and I’ve been studying it.”

  She must have sounded defensive because the hint of a smile, understanding and sincere, seeped into his hazel eyes. “It’s not a criticism, Isabelle. I told Peter I’d give you a few lessons while I’m here.” The smile spread to his lips, taking on a slight tinge of mischief. “You know. As payback for the yoga instruction.”

  “It’s so hard to resist such a kind, generous offer when you put it like that.” She slid into a chair and reached for the bowl of strawberries, a banana, and a slice of fresh bread, which she dropped in the toaster. The looks he gave her thawed a layer of the fear numbing her heart, making it difficult to remember this was no more than a game to him. “Where would you like to go sightseeing?”

  They discussed a few options before settling on a drive to the beach. “We could go to the city another day,” Garrett suggested. “Maybe Cheryl will be able to join us, and you ladies can shop while the kids and I go bowling or to a movie.”

  “I’m not much of a shopper.” Certainly not at the stores his sister would frequent. She had to save her money for the next emergency she didn’t doubt would be coming. She’d been left high and dry in Bangkok by one set of employers she’d trusted. That wasn’t happening again.

  His raised eyebrows said he didn’t believe her about the shopping, but he let it pass. “What do you like to do for fun, then? Other than running. And yoga. You’ll never convince me anyone enjoys that, by the way. A lobotomy would be a better way to empty your head.”

  The comparison made her laugh. Whether this was a game to him or not, Garrett was going out of his way to be charming. It was nice. She spent a lot of her time as an au pair trying not to intrude on her employers’ family life, and sometimes, it got lonely. She didn’t often have anyone to share a laugh with. Troubles, either.