The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

by Stephanie Queen

  “What evil terrorist? I didn’t see anyone but a bunch of tourists on that boat. Have you been taking hallucinogenic drugs?” She said this, but her gut tightened as she registered his tone, even if his words made no sense. She busied herself with brushing the wet coat of muddy gunk from her rear. It stuck uncomfortably when she tried to walk. He must be insane. There couldn’t possibly be real danger here in Boston on her own friendly home turf, she told herself. She felt like she was encased in muck and feared it might dry like cement. She’d stiffen and he’d have to throw her over his shoulder and carry her…

  “I saw the man—the leader of a known cell—Azzam bin Naah Al Basri. He threatened to terminate me back in London. He’s the reason I was shipped here. Let’s say we walk and talk.” He started moving without warning and dragged her along, not seeming to have the same difficulty with the layer of harbor sludge holding him back. He looked around and then stopped.

  “I’ve no idea where we are. This is your town—where do we go to get underground from here?”

  “Underground? What do you think, I’m a super-spy and decorating is a clever cover? I’m not really a Bond girl you know. To me underground means the subway.”

  He clamped his mouth to a neutral line—she could swear to keep from smiling.

  “Some place we can disappear. Preferably a place we can get to without being conspicuous. No taxis. The fewer people we come in contact with the better.” He was perfectly serious and staring at her intensely now as they stood not far from the parking lot, which was thankfully full of cars and not people. She told herself the goose bumps were from the light sea breeze hitting the cold wet clothing that clung to her. His dangerous terrorist sighting couldn’t be real. Paranoia must be getting to him. He’d obviously been through an ordeal of some kind. But regardless, she knew they had to get inside somewhere to clean up, so she thought about it.

  “I’m working on a house in Charlestown not far from here,” she told him as a concession to his understandable paranoia, an unfortunate by-product of his profession. Although she didn’t recall David behaving this way. She said, “I suppose we could get there on back streets.” She buzzed the mental map of the area through her head, figuring their route, and started walking. “It’s about half a mile. I have the key in my bag.” She lifted the tiny sodden purse from where it was slung across her side. Thank God for zipper compartments.

  “Oh, no—I bet my cell phone is history.” She thought about calling Grace, or maybe David. Then she figured she’d let Chauncey make that call.

  “We won’t be using your cell phone any longer. Nor mine. This man—let’s call him Azzam—has already identified my cover and whereabouts, so we’ll have to assume he’ll figure out who you are in short order. If he doesn’t already know.”

  “Pun intended, I suppose?”

  “What? Pun?”

  “The ‘short order’ crack. You know, in Japan five feet tall is considered average.”

  “What will it require for you to take me—this danger we’re both in—seriously?” He raked his hand through his hair, looking truly exasperated. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll save you from Azzam and from yourself as well. Point the way.”

  At first she felt silly slithering down back alleys and side streets, especially the way he made her keep to the inside of him and forced her to hug the brick walls and plan their street crossings to remain unseen. There were few people about, but he managed to spot them first and avoid being seen. By the time they arrived at the front door of her design set in progress, an errant evil thought kept buzzing her mind: what if he was right and there really was some killer looking for them?

  She unlocked the door with a slight shake to her hands and darn if he didn’t notice. He watched her like a hawk it seemed, whenever he wasn’t looking out for bad guys lurking about.

  “You must be cold,” he said with more kindness than urgency in his voice as they stepped into the entryway.

  She nodded. She had more sense than to let him know she was starting to worry. He stepped forward and headed toward the open living room.

  “Stop right there!” She yelped and looked around in sudden panic. “We need to get out of these filthy clothes before we ruin this place for the shoot tomorrow.” The decor, of course, was off-white and expensive lighting and video equipment abounded, so it was no wonder she felt protective of the space. If they messed this up now she’d kill Chauncey Miller before Azzam did. There would be little time to fix things before her once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in the morning. She needed this little adventure with Paranoid Scotland Yard Guy to be over soon. Of course it would soon be over. He would call David and he and Chauncey would go off and chase the bad guy and she’d go back to her office and kill Grace. She kicked off her shoes as she peeled off her jacket. Then she stopped as she realized he was watching her. And he was not following suit.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Continue.”

  “You need to take your muddy clothes off too. We can’t let a drop of dirt ruin this set.” She waved her hand in an arc indicating the expanse of the room. It was gorgeous and she’d decorated it and set the stage for her pilot TV show. Her pride started swelling.

  “I don’t suppose you had in mind what we might replace said muddy clothing with?”

  She hated that he had a very good point. The swell of pride popped. She scowled at him. He grinned and began undressing.

  “Leave your underwear on,” she told him hastily, and wondered when she got to be such a chicken. He unnerved her. She firmed up her voice and added, “I’ll dig up some towels. My client won’t mind if we use the guest bathroom. We can shower and even wash our clothes.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  She didn’t bother scowling again but turned away from him and pulled off her shirt and skirt. With her mucky clothes rolled up in a bundle, she scurried barefoot down the hall. His now familiar bark of laughter followed her. She felt lucky that he couldn’t see her face turn pink as she slammed the bathroom door behind her. It felt like an empty gesture since Sherlock could probably pick the lock. She puffed out a breath of exasperation.

  Maybe the danger was over. Maybe it was just beginning.

  Fresh from the shower, he had to admit to himself that he felt better. He’d never admit it to the little Pixie. Her refusal to look directly at him as he stood there in his towel amused him. He approached one of the couches to sit, only to be shouted at.

  “No! Don’t sit; don’t touch anything. I told you—this place needs to be perfect for the shoot in the morning. It’s my big break, a shot at my own decorating show. And wouldn’t you know it? I have a sinking feeling it’s going to be blown.” She had a sheet wrapped around her toga-style and her arms folded across her distractingly ample breasts. The towel around her head couldn’t quite contain the short spikes of hair around her face. She plopped down on the floor and stared up at him now, finally.

  So he joined her on the floor. She turned her head away.

  “Don’t worry—I know how to sit without exposing the jewels. As soon as our clothes are dry, we’re going to the nearest store to buy a disposable cell phone and we’ll call the safe number.”

  “Safe number?”

  “Yes. It’s a phone number I was given to call if anything went wrong while I was here. In order to stay underground, we can’t directly contact the Police Department or the Exchange Program office.”

  “But I could call…”

  “No. You could not. Do not even think of calling anyone unless you want them set up.”

  “By ‘set up’ you mean what exactly?”

  “I mean used as bargaining chips or bait or just flat out killed while he lies in wait to pounce.”

  “Geesh.”

  He studied her. She seemed to be trying even harder now not to take him seriously. But any way he measured it, she was a serious complication.

  “You’re thinking I’m a complication, aren’t you?”

  Chapter
3

  “Now what?” Sophia said, as she emerged from the bathroom with her freshly cleaned and dry clothes back on. Chauncey, or whatever his name really was, had probably napped while she laundered their clothes, cleaned up and dressed, after she relented and let him lie on the couch in his towel.

  Okay, if she were to be honest with herself, he hadn’t asked for her permission before getting up from the floor, making himself comfortable on the couch and even closing his eyes. But now she felt antsy to get out of here. They’d been here less than ninety minutes but it felt like ninety years to her. She squared her shoulders and prepared herself to walk right up to him and shake him awake.

  “Chauncey? Time to…” She stopped short in front of the couch where she’d left him. He was gone. She whirled around and looked at the doors to the other rooms and took off to check out each one. “Chauncey? Where the hell did you go? This isn’t funny!” After she’d checked every room she returned to the living room and plopped herself down on the couch where she’d left him and sucked in the tears ruthlessly. “You are not going to cry,” she said out loud.

  “Well I certainly hope not.”

  She jumped to a stand. Chauncey stood in the door with that same devilish look like he was up to no good. Only now she knew it was not merely her impression. It was real. He really had been up to no good. Probably still was.

  “No thanks to you! What the hell…”

  “I’d love to argue with you, but no time.” He took her by the arm and started dragging her along yet again. “I went shopping while you were cleaning up and got a disposable cell phone, sunglasses and hats. Not much, but enough to keep us covered while we get to our pickup.”

  She stared at him. Then she realized she’d left him in a towel. “Wait a minute—where did you get those clothes? How did you…?”

  “They were in the closet.” He pulled on her arm again.

  She dug in her heels.

  “Take them off. Right now.” She pulled her arms away from him and folded them across her chest.

  She felt a flutter of surprise at the look he gave her then. Followed instantly by a rise in heat as she realized she’d demanded that he strip. Again.

  “Disrobing is a thing with you, isn’t it?” he said, his eyes dreamy as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

  The man could change demeanor on a dime, she’d give him that. Then she shook herself from his devilish spell. “You know what I mean. You can’t take my client’s clothes.”

  “Oh, is that it? Don’t worry. I’ll launder and return them tomorrow. If Azzam doesn’t catch up with us and make good on his murder threat before then. Let’s go.” This time he put his arm around her shoulder and propelled her in a gentlemanly manner.

  This time she didn’t resist because she couldn’t afford to have him undressing again and have to suffer his half-nude presence again. If he was Grace’s idea of a suitable match for her, then her friend didn’t know her at all. Grace may not mind this cloak-and-dagger business. In fact, as she recalled, Grace loved getting involved in this cloak-and-dagger stuff with David.

  Not her. This was not her cup of tea at all. She grabbed her purse and locked the door behind them, wondering if she’d have a chance to finish cleaning up and wipe the place of their prints before her clients returned.

  She turned to him and he shoved a hat on her head. “Wear these glasses too,” he said and handed her a pair of clear glass spectacles.

  “I thought you said you got sunglasses.” She examined them, but had no intention of wearing them. They were ugly. She had to draw the line somewhere.

  “I did. I bought a pair of sunglasses for myself. I thought these spectacles suited you for a disguise better.” He said this to her, grabbed her hand and turned up the wattage on his smile to near laughter.

  “Very funny. I’m not wearing them.” She wanted to toss them, but some deep-seated goody-two-shoes impulse prevented her from doing the smart thing. She yanked her hand from his and stomped forward down the street in the direction they had come in.

  He laughed a low sexy laugh this time. No sharp cynical bark. Damn it. That stopped her. She spun around. “What now?”

  “If you want to meet the car for our pickup, you’d better come with me.” He turned and walked the other way with his dashing hat and dark glasses and a classy looking linen shirt if she had to admit it.

  She sighed and followed.

  “Hurry along. Azzam bin Naah Al Basri isn’t likely to give up looking for us. The name Azzam means ‘Resolved’ and he was well named. He’ll scour all the neighborhoods near the harbor and that’s exactly where he’ll find us.”

  “In spite of the clever disguises you devised?” She arched a brow. She couldn’t resist.

  He checked his watch, then held out his hand for her to take when she caught up. Propelling them forward at a speedy clip up the hill, he stopped when they reached a busy intersection. He kept her to the inside of him, against the wall, and peered down the street. She tried peering around his broad shoulder to see what he was seeing. She was about to say something sarcastic about all this being silly when he spoke first.

  “That old car down the street is our ride. Let’s go.”

  When he dragged her in the opposite direction down another hill, passing by shops and curious stares, she had to ask, “What are you doing?” She slowed her pace. He tugged on her arm.

  “Can you not trust me on this? Follow.” He commanded her, and then after a glance over his shoulder he moved them along. She followed. This time.

  The car that was supposed to be their ride started driving in their direction, thank God. It was beginning to get to her. Whatever sort of misadventure “it” was would all be over soon. But the patchy ancient junk-box with no hubcaps drove on past. She watched with a sinking feeling as it pulled over a block ahead of them.

  “Are you sure that’s the good guys?”

  “Positive. It’s an undercover vehicle.” He said this as he put his arm at her back and nudged her toward the door.

  What was it with this guy and his manhandling? How serious was all this? She never actually saw his mysterious Mr. Resolved Azzam guy. What if this was an elaborate scheme? Her paranoid thoughts were interrupted when she saw a man dressed in black about three blocks down the hill. Odd enough by itself, but he was running. All-out sprinting. In their direction.

  “What’s with that guy?” She gestured toward the man.

  Chauncey glanced up as he grabbed the car door handle. She would have asked him what was wrong when she saw the look on his face, but she glanced back at the man and saw him raise his arm. The mystery man looked like one of those guys on a bad TV cop show ready to shoot a gun.

  Then she realized that he really did have a gun. Chauncey must have realized it too. In the same instant the horrible seriousness of it all dawned on her, he pulled open the car door and, lifting her off the ground, shoved her inside. He dove in on top of her at the same time as the window shattered.

  Whoever was driving didn’t wait for them to close the door before screeching to a start with a spinning U-turn. Her breathing had stopped and she tried to sit up to get air.

  “Stay down,” he said while he lifted himself off her and reached for the door, slamming it closed.

  A few more bullets must have hit the car. At least that’s what it sounded like. It occurred to her she’d never heard gunshots before.

  “Damn.” Chauncey crouched and reached down in the direction of his feet and pulled out a gun. He turned in his seat and pointed the gun at the back window. Without looking at her he said, “Don’t say a word and don’t make a move.”

  She didn’t dare. He’d convinced her in that moment when she saw the expression on his face. Nothing like the charmingly devilish expression he had the first time they’d met. His face was so purely cold that she shivered.

  “Double damn.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head—only for a moment. She thought it might be a silent prayer. He turned and sat, bent forw
ard and put the gun back where he’d gotten it. Wherever that was.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding while she waited for him to shoot the thing. He turned to her. His eyes were back to their usual mischievous level of cool. Her mind buzzed with the impossibility of it all.

  “That gun…how did you…? Where did you…?”

  “I flew with the air marshal. We were both given special dispensation to carry weapons.” He removed a cell phone from his shirt pocket and pressed in some numbers.

  “But the water…how?”

  “Technology is amazing isn’t it?” He smiled. He held the phone to his ear, waited, then spoke. “Chauncey here. Our man can be found in the vicinity of Cross Street and Bunker Hill Avenue. He’s armed, on foot, wearing black. Shots were fired. Unfortunately not by me.” He finished his conversation, then tossed the phone on the floor.

  She snapped.

  “You idiot! Those bullets were real. That man was shooting at us. At me! He’s allowed to shoot at you, but I’m no super spy and it’s all your fault…” She shoved him and kept shoving him and wanted to push him right out of the car as she kept shouting.

  “Everything back there okay?” The driver spoke over her.

  She paused and felt the tears on her cheeks. Chauncey met her eyes. Then he pulled her into him and held her tight without saying a word. The quaking started at her core and spread through her entire body. She hid her face in his shirt.

  “My poor little Pixie.” Her hair muffled his words so that they sounded soft.

  But Sophia heard his words whether he meant her to or not. She felt warmed by them and let out a deep sigh. Her tears had soaked into the linen material of his shirt, but they stopped now. It was her client’s shirt, she remembered. She didn’t want this crazy man comforting her. She needed to get a grip on herself. She shoved him away again.

  “You’re ruining my client’s shirt. You almost had me killed!” She glared up into his eyes. They turned from heart-melting to unreadable in a nanosecond.