Grace’s face lit up because she knew she’d hit Sophia’s soft spot. But Sophia wasn’t ready to let go of her tension yet. The coil inside her refused to budge. She folded her arms across her chest. No easy task.
“It’s exactly the diversion you need. I honestly can’t do it myself and David is ensconced in some top secret exercise all day…then we were going to have a romantic dinner,” she confessed.
Sophia kept her arms firmly crossed and her lips pressed into a hard line, but she couldn’t continue to hold the pose for more than five seconds. Grace was calling in a favor in the name of romance. This must be important to her friend.
“Don’t you know any Italian movie stars?” Sophia muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll do it. All thoughts of my shoot for the Design Boston audition are gone. Maybe I will recruit Scotland Yard Guy as a client—after all, he’s new to town, right? Give me the details. Tell me something about this guy, like his name and what he looks like.”
“Umm…”
“You don’t know? Wonderful. I’ll show up at Logan Airport with a sign that says ‘Scotland Yard Guy’ and see what happens,” Pixie said, and bounced up off the corner of Grace’s desk.
Grace rummaged through some papers. “No wait…here it is. I have two names, but…well, I’m not sure which one is his real name. But I’m pretty sure he’ll answer to either of them. One of the names must be his new secret code name…or something. You know how these detectives are—all secretive cloak-and-dagger.”
Pixie blew her bangs again, but decided to be nice to her friend. Grace deserved her run of smooth sailing. The least she could do was help out. Since David had been put in charge of the Scotland Yard Exchange Program in Boston the minute he and Grace had returned from their honeymoon, they’d been pressed to find much time together.
“If you promise me this is not a fix-up in disguise, I’ll go to whatever lengths are required. Of course, all in the name of the Queen and country and to save the world and all that pip-pip rot.” She gave Grace the sweetest and least mischievous grin she could manage.
It worked. Grace’s face went back to unperturbed bliss. “Thank you, Pix. I’ve no idea what he looks like, but one of his names is Chauncey Miller. I’m sure he’ll answer to it.”
“Great. Chauncey. What’s the other name?”
“Winston …”
“Never mind. Although it would be nice to know which one is his real name and which one is code.” It didn’t matter to her, but it might matter to him.
“You can ask him when you meet him.” Grace checked her wristwatch. “In one hour.” Grace gave her that signature beatific smile. It was a wonder how she tolerated Miss Sunshine, but Sophia would be lost in the thunderstorms of her own personality if it weren’t for her best friend Gracie.
She saluted her friend. “On it, boss.” Then she flew out the door.
Sophia eyed the other name-placard-bearing chauffeurs lined up at the end of the British Airways arrival passageway and noticed they were all eying her. She didn’t let the fact that she was at least a half a foot shorter than the shortest of them, and the only female, bother her in the least. In fact, she scowled back at them with her “I am a short-tempered, as well as short-statured, redheaded woman who routinely goes well past feisty at the least provocation” look.
She was about to say something when a man grabbed her by the elbow and swept her along toward the exit. She dropped her Magic Marker-enhanced poster board and looked up into the face of a devil if she ever saw one. She opened her mouth, saw his eyes shift to hers in a dare and said, “Chauncey, I presume?” She figured his grin, signified by the dimple on the side of his face, was his answer in the affirmative.
They swept out the door to the street and he dragged her to a taxi toward the end of the line, around the line of travelers waiting for said taxi, and he still hadn’t even given her more than a peripheral glance.
“Hey, how do I know you’re not a kidnapper?” She planted herself on the curb at the back door of the taxi. No way was she getting in with this stranger, devilish grin or no. He bent to talk to the cab driver through the open passenger window while he flipped his phone from his pocket and punched in a number.
With the phone to his ear, he finally turned to her and gave her a flash of his full-fledged smile. It was too wicked to be a smile, framed by the dark shadow of a beard along his strong jaw. His straight dark hair was a bit too long, but it didn’t hide his crystal blue eyes. She took a deep breath and doubled up on her stare of disapproval. She folded her arms across her chest. Too late she watched his eyes follow her move and aim straight at her double Ds. Double damn. But then, without a word, he handed his phone to her and she had to unfold her arms to take it.
“Hello?” Sophia said as she kept her frown aimed at him.
“Pixie? Is that you?” It was David Young’s voice on the other end of the line. Gosh darn it. This guy was the genuine Chauncey Miller.
“Never mind. I’ve got your new guy. Just checking in,” she said and turned the phone off. She gave Chauncey her look. He eyed her right back.
“You sounded rather official for a decorator,” he said, and gestured for her to return his phone.
She rolled her eyes, determined not to register surprise that he knew she was a decorator, and ducked into the taxi. “I suppose you know my bra size too,” she said as he slid in next to her. She looked straight at him, unflinching, to see his response. He didn’t flinch either, unless she considered a loud bark of laughter a flinch.
“No, but I could arrange to acquire that information by the end of the day. Where to, Ms. Pixie? Chief Young put you in charge of my safekeeping. I trust his judgment. Or I did.”
“You’ve been talking to David too much. Or rather he’s been talking too much to you, I see. The name is Sophia Alano.” She leaned forward to address the cab driver herself. “Let’s go to Charlestown, shall we? To the U.S.S. Constitution.” She sat back in the seat and the car took off. So what if it was only a few blocks away from her mostly finished town house filled with video equipment? Grace didn’t have to know if Sophia just happened to stop by there while she babysat Chauncey, did she?
“Sightseeing?”
“That’s right, Chauncey. Any problem with that?”
“It’ll do.”
“So why are you here anyway? Why have you been exiled to the Boston Police Department, of all places?” Then before he answered, she thought of a more important question. “And where the heck is your luggage?”
“I travel light. What makes you think this is an exile? It could be a plum assignment for which I competed with many qualified detectives all lined up to come to the States.”
“Is your life in danger?”
He stopped talking and gave her his look again. Bingo. She’d hit the nerve she’d been looking for. He wasn’t so tough after all.
“Are you an undercover decorator?”
“Only when I go to bed at night.” She kept her eyes on him.
He barked another laugh. Not much humor in it.
“You seem edgy. Should I be worried?” She persisted, unsure why she was playing this game, but enjoying it all the same—enjoying that she was playing well.
He relaxed back in the seat and seemed to uncoil before her eyes. Before he answered her he took his time looking her over, then pinned her with his icy blue eyes. “Not unless you’re worried about how I might discover your bra size later.” Then he smiled, for real, all the way to the corners of those eyes. They didn’t seem so cold anymore.
Pixie felt a flutter. That was immediately followed by a mental slap. This man was too serious and intense and self-important, but most of all, too dangerously edgy. Not dangerous in that fake-emotional, trying-to-take-advantage of a girl way, but in a life-threatening way. As in, if she hung out with him, she would be in danger of losing life and limb. She wondered if Grace ever felt that way with David. Hmmm.
“Hmmm?”
> She hadn’t realized she’ hmmmed out loud. She was saved having to explain the hmmm by their arrival at the old Navy Yard and the abrupt stop of the cab.
Seagulls, sea air and the scent of murky harbor water filled her nostrils. She breathed it all in deeply to restart her brain. She’d need all her wits to play with this guy and win. She popped out of the cab and started walking toward the pier.
“So how old are you anyway?” she asked, not looking back at him over her shoulder.
“Top secret.” He caught up to her in two strides.
“Old enough to want to hide it, eh?”
“Thirty-five.”
She stopped and bravely faced him with her hands on her hips, chest all exposed, and said, “At the top of your form and ready to make your mark in your career and here you are stuck in Boston relegated to hiding out with me.”
“Are you some kind of psychic?”
“Yes, I’m a Pixie, remember?”
“I didn’t know Pixies were noted for anything other than their short stature.”
“Hey, don’t get offensive with me. I didn’t send you here.” She gave him a triple-furrowed scowl. “Besides, here is better than ending up dead in Liverpool.” She waved her arm in the direction of the harbor and the boat, the U.S.S. Constitution. She felt a small niggle of guilt about the Revolutionary War rub, and then immediately got over it.
They followed their guide up the plank and onto the boat.
“So this is my hideout? A relic warship?” He looked down at her as they stepped onto the deck. Then he looked around at the various small groups of people spread about. While they were waiting for the official tour to start, he led her up to the bow of the ship that overlooked the harbor. Then he stood and looked out over the water—in the direction of England, she presumed.
She folded her arms across her chest yet again and shook her head. “Well, aren’t you a pile of fun? Are you going to stand there and brood or are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
He laughed. She was trying so damn hard to be intimidating and tough, but her petite pixie persona didn’t allow for it. Neither did her killer body. He allowed a flick of his eyes over her voluptuous, miniature form. He guessed her to stand at not a centimeter over five feet and was about to risk patting her on the head for sport, but a loud whistle drew their attention.
A uniformed tour guide blew his whistle again and gestured to assemble the various groups of tourists about him. As was his habit, Chauncey hung back and watched the others, studying the faces in the crowd for anyone familiar or dangerous. The Pixie woman felt no such compulsion to be cautious and stepped ahead of him.
At that moment he spotted a man in his peripheral vision. Chauncey ducked behind a wide pole and grabbed Pixie by the corner of her bag and tugged her back into him, sliding his hand over her mouth as he captured her with his other arm to hold her still. He peered between some hanging ropes to where the man stood. There was no mistake.
Pixie stomped on his foot and pushed his hand away from her mouth. “Hey!” she squeaked.
Damn. He couldn’t stop her without harming her, though he tried. She struggled from his hold and the safety of the hidden corner and moved out into the open, drawing attention to them. He stepped to her side quickly and blocked her, keeping his back to the man.
“Don’t be shy—step right up and join us,” the costumed guide said as he gestured toward them, causing everyone to turn in their direction.
Double bloody damn. He sensed rather than saw the man’s movement. There was no time for explanations.
“Of course—as soon as I’ve been to the loo,” he said with a tight smile and pulled Pixie with him around the far corner away from the crowd. He saw the man move to the back of the group and disappear around the other side of the cabin, blocking their exit. Or blocking the exit if they left the same way they came onto the boat. He moved them fast and thought faster.
“Geesh. You have a bladder control problem or something? What’s with you?” the Pixie whined, but kept up.
He stopped when they were out of view. She stared up into his face with her frown in place and her green eyes daring him. Her reddish hair blew around her face in the sea breeze and she swiped at a stray strand that stuck to her mouth. Her plump, juicy red mouth, he thought.
He had no business thinking that thought, he realized, and no choice but to trust her and protect her. After all, he’d put her in danger in the first place. Now the man had seen her with him and Chauncey feared she was as doomed as he. Not doomed, he corrected himself, rather she was now as likely to be hunted as he.
“The man who’s after me is on the ship and he’s spotted me—and you. We need to get out of here fast. You’ll need to trust me and do exactly as I say.”
“Do exactly as you say? Are you channeling lines from a bad action movie? You’re nuts. I didn’t see any man after us…”
He didn’t wait for her acquiescence. He grabbed her arm and spotted the most likely spot for escape—a block of wood next to the rail on the far side of the ship from the ramp. He dragged her at a dead run before anyone else spotted them and before the man came around the corner to ambush them.
“Hey, where are you dragging me to?” she gasped her protest.
He ran and accelerated as fast as he could in the short distance. Pulling her with him, he used their momentum to stride up on top of the block. Then holding her to his chest with his arms wrapped around her, he hurled them up and over the railing in a high jump move he hadn’t used since his school days. He clapped his hand over her mouth in the nick of time to prevent her screech.
As they cleared the rail, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm that no one saw them, and then he angled them straight down. They knifed into the cold black water of the harbor with a dull splash and sank.
He could barely see a thing in the murky seawater, but he’d checked his bearings on the short trip down and hauled his ungainly companion toward the pier. It’s a good thing she was pixie-sized because she was close to impossible to manage as it was. Her struggling was slowing them and his breath was running out as he brought them upward to emerge at the surface under the wharf or, he hoped, close by.
The instant they broke through the surface, he gained his whereabouts and positioned himself between her and the boat. As he’d predicted, she sputtered and splashed and she wasn’t quiet about it. The moment she cleared the hair out of her eyes, she lashed out and slapped him across the face and he went down, swallowing water in his surprise. He never realized all the insinuations about redheaded women were true. He should not be astonished to hear her laugh as he broke back through the water. This time he used caution to protect them both from her misguided fury, or whatever it was that drove her.
“Drowning me won’t help at this moment.” He choked out the words, blocking her flailing arms. “I’m your best bet to get out of here.”
“Least you can do,” she drew a breath. “Since you’re the one that got me in the damn water.” She tried for fury but appeared too out of breath to make it work. She turned away and started swimming for the landing where the taxi had dropped them off—maybe ten minutes ago, he thought. And evidently they’d been followed in spite of their quick exit from the airport. He treaded water, spying the boat. Seeing no commotion, he turned his attention back to the mad woman he now had to look out for. She swam exactly like a woman fully clothed, clumsy and slow—and in the wrong direction.
He thought of letting her go, but he knew there was no way to climb out against the cement wall where she was headed. So once again, he took up the seemingly thankless task of saving her life. He caught up to her and pointed her around toward a shoreline of sorts farther down under a neighboring pier.
Chapter 2
Dragging herself and her sodden clothing from the filthy cold water was surprisingly difficult, but she’d die before she let that lunatic from Scotland Yard help her—even with his pinky finger. Finally out of the water, she walked toward th
e sunlight to plop down in the muck and catch her breath. But no.
“Don’t go out in the open—your life could depend on it,” he said to her in an urgent voice. He appeared to be perfectly serious.
“You are insane.” She turned and dismissed him. Then he tackled her—or at least that’s what it felt like as she rolled in the mud with him on top of her. Her breath was gone and she suddenly felt cold. She stopped moving and lay there smelling the distinct sea-salt-and-oily-sludge-scented air of the harbor close up. It wasn’t as refreshing as it had been when they’d first arrived. Not having realized she had her eyes closed, she opened them and looked up into his face as he lay sprawled over her. He looked into her eyes with his piercing blue ones and she had the ridiculous thought that he really did look the part of James Bond from this angle. Laughter bubbled up at the absurdity and she thought that she must have been catching whatever was making him crazy.
“This is serious. Please listen.” This time his voice was kinder and he looked at her with an odd goose-bump-raising expression.
But she couldn’t help her hysteria now and so she kept on laughing.
Then he moved his lips close. She took a quick breath of anticipation as if she were going under again. He gave her a hint of a smile while he stared at her lips. Then with a flash of his eyes at hers, he spoke. “This isn’t a James Bond movie.” His voice was quiet, raspy.
He lifted his head and shook it, then bounded up off of her in a move that made her think of a jungle cat. He reached down to lift her from the ground, while his eyes glided around their perimeter.
“I’m not playing games.” His eyes finally met hers. They were laser sharp. “We are now officially on the run and you are now officially my partner in running for our lives—intended or not—from the proverbial evil terrorist out to get his revenge.” He said this as he held onto her hand with a fear-grip as if he knew she’d flee his insanity.
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 69
