Behind Frenemy Lines

by Chele Pedersen Smith

  Behind Frenemy Lines

  Chele Pedersen Smith

  Cover-art by

  Steven Novak

  Novakillustrations@gmail.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Chele Pedersen Smith.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Chele Pedersen Smith/Kindle, Amazon.com

  www.amazon.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and their opinions, places (such as LINK), and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental, except for the mention of celebrities, historical figures and existing places which have been used fictitiously. The plot outcome with a former president is the author’s imagination and not to be taken as actual fact.

  Flourish ©2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Behind Frenemy Lines/ Chele Pedersen Smith. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1543003277, ISBN 978-1543003273

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  For Hopeful Romantics Everywhere

  Chapter One

  C hocolate casualties in heart-shaped boxes collided as she elbowed her way through the crowded deli, reaching for the dispenser at the same time as the handsome stranger. A zap zinged her finger, and she withdrew her hand suddenly. Had the machine malfunctioned or was it the derma-transmitter she'd just embedded near his thumb?

  “Ladies first.”

  “Thank you,” she blushed, looking up at his height, embarrassed the reflection in his specs caught her slumming in sweats, while he was freshly spruced in a suit and Old Spice. No fair either that she felt the mesmerizing pull into those Baryshnikov baby blues! Getting lost in that ceil sea, time stood still.

  “Allow me.” The whir of the receipt reeled her back in as he retrieved her ticket, then punched his own.

  “Ah, my lucky number,” she sang, holding up twenty-two, just to say something.

  “Michael Jordan's—twenty-three!” He flashed his placeholder with a smile. She must have looked blank because he continued, “Not a basketball fan, I take it.”

  Her burgundy ponytail flopped like a fish when she shook her head.

  He was riveted by an odd scar below the nape of her neck. A cigar burn or bullet wound, he wasn't sure. “C'mon, you're wearing the Wizards! Surely you've heard about the best player of all time—Chicago Bulls, retired, opened steak houses, unretired to play here in the capital. Space Jam movie with Bugs Bunny…”

  Laughing at all the absurd references, she clutched her tattered tee. “This old thing? I'm not much into sorcery, and I certainly hope he didn't use those bulls for steak. I recently moved here from Europe.”

  “Ah, that explains it! I was beginning to think you were from outer space.”

  “Maybe I'll rent it. I'm watching movies to brush up on culture and all your interesting phrases.”

  “I think you'll like if you're a fan of Looney Tunes.”

  “I think the French skunk is cute. Or… maybe it's because love stinks.” Her voice trailed off, and her shy smile practically dented the can of sardines in her basket. She felt off game flirting with him but what choice did she have when he was her latest mark.

  “Good one,” he hooted, eyeing the swinging Cupids above their heads. “Unless you've been jilted?” She squirmed at his sympathetic scrutiny, so he changed the subject. “Your English is fine, though. Where do you hail from?”

  Just then the butcher bellowed her number, lucky indeed.

  Chapter Two

  H e's been gone too long. What the hell was he up to? Galaxy stared into the early May night from her office on the fifteenth floor. It was her favorite part of day when dusk set the sun and the moon clocked in, the twinkling city intensified, blanketing Baltimore in a spellbinding brilliance. Creating the perfect backdrop, it was a welcomed distraction, exactly the kind she needed now. If she focused far enough, she could spot the Washington Monument from her view on Federal Hill. Not the one in D.C. but the original statue commemorated in Mount Vernon.

  An interrupting knock made her jump. “Still here?” Lee appeared, four take-out cartons dangling from his hands.

  “Yeah, it helps to mull over clues while my mind wanders,” she murmured, then glancing at her Movado bangle, turned from the window. “I guess I lost track of time. Oh, Grace Garden, my favorite! You went all the way to Fort Meade.”

  “Sure, had an appointment at headquarters and I knew how much you liked it. Basically, the only thing I've learned about you!” Besides, you'd probably have my head if I didn't.

  “What meeting was this and why didn't I know about it?”

  “Oh, nothing you'd be interested in,” he assured, slipping the flaps out of the Fold-Paks and dealing out chopsticks.

  “Try me,” she challenged, prodding him with a wooden skewer.

  “Geez, you really hate being left out of the loop, huh? I'll pencil that in as number two on the list.” Scratching his thumb, he saw her clench. “No worries,” he soothed. “Just an athletics meeting. Boring budget stuff. We have to shell out a few bucks for uniforms this year, so now you know all that I know.” Plopping down on the overstuffed chaise, he slurped up a pile of noodles. “So anything leap out at ya from the skyscrapers?”

  “Not yet, but you'd be surprised what a genius I am on autopilot.” She took a seat at her desk. “I had an inkling you'd stop by.”

  “Psychic or hungry?”

  “Something like that,” she smiled, stabbing at her Szechuan crab. “I'm at a dead-end and need to pick your brain.”

  “Okay but be gentle,” he warned, dashing to his office for his desk chair. He was pleased she was finally asking for his help. What was under that concrete exterior, anyway? He'd been trying to figure her out ever since Geoffrey threw them together six weeks ago. Coasting on casters, he rode in on his knees looking more like a skateboarder than a secret agent.

  “I've been scouring the internet all afternoon. The only remote possibility of threats is the Peace Expo. Some leaders are in town from the United Nations.” Munching on snow peas, she opened a bookmark to show him the web page. She tried hiding a yawn. They had been working late all week, and exhaustion was hijacking her energy.

  He grabbed his dinner, then turned around and straddled the seat backward, looking over her shoulder.

  “Keep tabs on that, but I think it's retaliation for Bin Laden. I don't see any other reason to threaten the White House, do you?”

  Gal tried ignoring the tiny hairs mustering along her vertebrae aroused by his bravado. She rotated her neck, stiff from sit
ting scrunched over the screen all day.

  “Here, you need a shoulder rub?” He set his Chinese carry-out on the filing cabinet, spinning her chair so her back faced him, then began kneading her trapezius.

  Even though he was a little too close for comfort, she didn't protest. His thick hands were miracle workers through her cowl-neck cashmere.

  “You have a lot of knots, Gal. Stressed?” He asked the last part in a whisper, close to her ear. She shut her eyes, fond of his warm breath permeating her collar, the only part of him deemed safe there. But stress didn't even scratch the surface. The year ended in such a devastating mess; she was amazed she could even get out of bed.

  “It's this business we're in,” she covered instead. “It's tricky, not to mention frustrating. We can't tell people the amazing things we do or who we really are.” There was more truth to that than even Lee realized. “How do you handle it?”

  “I have my ways,” he said, trying to sound mysterious, chortling at himself instead. “Well, okay, it's mainly the gym. But it can be fun creating alter egos, don't you think?”

  “Maybe I'm having an identity crisis,” she sighed. “I haven't been able to get myself together lately. I'd love to escape to a deserted island with a stack of books and a slew of cats.”

  “Number three—bookworm, and four—crazy cat lady.” He pretended to scribble in an imaginary notebook. “We're so close to cracking this case, it'll be over soon, and we can lie in a hammock on the beach. And for the record, you seem nicely put together to me.”

  “Thanks, I think.” Flattered, she began to relax. “Been hitting the gym a lot too. I can’t shake the tension, though. Where did you learn how to do this? You could open a practice— Lee Clancy’s Fancy Fingers, or something like that. Mmm.”

  “Why, thank you. That sounds more like a piano service, or maybe a chicken joint.” He paused to flex his hands. “I took some classes at The Wellness Center last summer when I went undercover as an acupuncturist. I got into it big time, so I enrolled and took in all they had to teach me. I have my jar of pins in the trunk, if you want, I can—”

  “No, that’s quite alright,” she objected.

  “You're all tight again. I was just needling you,” he chuckled, poking her with his index fingers. “Sorry, that was bad. So, the smart, brave Galaxy O’Jordan is afraid of shots, is she?”

  “Number five,” she admitted. “We all have our thing.”

  “Ah, so you wouldn’t want me to prick you, then? Sorry, that was even worse,” he muttered, embarrassed.

  “Yes, it was,” she giggled, tucking a stray section of hair behind her ear. She was feeling so calm; she was putty in his hands. That is until she realized it was his lips roving toward her neck, leaving a tingling trail of goosebumps. Oh no, not her kryptonite! She rose abruptly.

  “Everything okay? Was the pressure too hard?”

  “A tad. Dial it down, Don Juan!” She paced the room, cataloging her mood. She admired his boldness, was intrigued by it even if it scared her. “Don't get me wrong, it felt nice, maybe too good, you know? But at least buy me a drink first.” She softened, shifting her glance.

  “Sometimes I come on too strong. I'm sorry, I misread your signals. I seem to be doing a lot of apologizing tonight.” He stopped, studying her stance. There was something familiar about it that furrowed his brows. “The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. The number one rule is trust.” He scooched his chair over to the cabinet to reclaim his food.

  “That's true. Let's try to be more open.” She resumed her screen position, trying to get the chills out of her mind. “I don't see how you think we've almost solved the case, though. We haven't the slightest clue to what or where the threat is. I know it sounds cliché, but I think it's an inside job.”

  “I'm a bug specialist,” he announced, winding Lo Mein around his chopsticks like a ball of yarn.

  “Insects and Asian medicine, how do you find the time?”

  “Eavesdropping devices,” he smiled. “If it's internal, we can do some planting. But we probably won't need to. I'll bet the family farm on my theory. It's the only logical explanation.”

  Why, because you're in on it? The last thing she needed was another arrogant man. She had already rid herself of one, even if it wasn't her choice. “Since when did terrorism ever makes sense?” She twirled her chair rhetorically, twisting her tresses into a bun.

  “Tell me something about you. Something deep.”

  “Besides my needle phobia?” She let go of her burgundy-streaked hair, and it unraveled rapidly, falling where it may around her shoulders.

  He watched fascinated. “Yes, something juicy.”

  “Let's see… my favorite childhood meal is mom's mazuricks. They're these crispy turkey cutlets with cheese things, and they're pretty succulent.” Her eyes flashed with mischief as she leaned on the crook of her arm.

  “You know I didn't mean food,” he grinned. “What are your strengths in the field, surely you have some specialties?” He scooted closer, his breath sweet and inviting despite scallions and soy sauce.

  “Lipstick Mace,” she whispered, whipping a silver tube from her skirt. Popping the cap, she swiveled the stick and nestled it under his nose, swiping a swatch along the divot as he flinched, holding his breath. “Don't worry, this one's a dud, but you do look pretty.” She glided a fresh coat of color on her mouth, sealing it with a smack.

  “That's hot,” he gulped, surprising her. “I like a woman who can take care of herself.” He grazed Gal's lips, luring her in for more.

  With the lone illumination glowing from the computer monitor, slightly enhanced by the night lights outside her window, Gal took the bait, her inhibitions slipping away with the refined fuzz of his five o'clock shadow.

  He gently guided her out of the chair to his lap.

  “We shouldn’t—” she began, but her mouth was cut off by his. In the muted light, partial silhouettes played tricks, distorting Lee's features and morphing him into someone completely different. Excited by this phenomenon, she slipped off his glasses, so caught up in desire she didn't mind the way he hushed her, although, for women libbers everywhere, she probably should have. The contrast of his strong hands against the curve of her waist made her five-seven frame feel dainty and feminine.

  “I also like taking care of a woman,” he murmured, his hands traveling up her soft lavender sweater, cupping her breasts restrained by a lacy purple bra.

  She was grateful for the recent shopping spree. Pretty undergarments boosted her self-esteem, but she didn’t expect anyone else to get a peek at the goods. Not that it mattered much in the dark.

  “Is this a roll of quarters or are you happy to see me?” she quipped, feeling a firm swelling beneath her skirt.

  “Medallions and I’ve wanted you since the second week you got here.”

  “Not the first?” she teased. They'd been flirting since day one. She thought she noticed his interest but didn’t want to count too many chickens. She'd do anything to avoid playing the fool again, but now that it was out there, she was free to pounce. So she did.

  “Nice,” he gasped, approving of her assertive behavior as she fumbled, unfastening his slacks. “Do you want to do this? Land almighty say yes but it's your choice, I swear!”

  Untucking his shirt with a forceful tug, she savagely tore it open, buttons popping off in all directions. What's come over me? She never had such a strong urge with anyone before, at least not this soon, not even with the love of her life. Something about Lee ignited a fire she hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe it was just her competitive nature taking over, but was it an ethical way to convince the opposition you were on their side? She made a mental note to check the manual.

  Lightly stroking his upper torso, she felt a bit like Goldilocks proclaiming his smattering of chest hair 'just right.' Her hand descended, tracing the defined outline of his six-pack before slipping lower past the snap of his pants. His encouraging groan startled her conscience.
>
  With the cinematic sound of a record needle dragging across a turntable, she asked the cold shower of all questions. “I take it we have safe precautions?”

  “Nope, didn’t know this would happen. Sorry. Again.”

  They slumped back in their chairs disappointed.

  “A good spy is always prepared. We should know that.”

  “That’s the Boy Scouts,” Lee corrected. “But Damn, I wish we kept a first aid kit.”

  “Well, probably a good thing we don't. We need to get back to work anyway.” Damn was right! A crazy night of meaningless sex would do wonders, but she had to keep her wits sharp. No room for costly mistakes. She clasped her mussed hair into the sort of bun flip she always did, groped for her scarlet specs and smoothed her sweater, trying to regain an ounce of professionalism. Trolling more websites, she sighed, feeling bored and let-down. Politics—some consolation prize!

  She snuck a glance at Lee. His head was thrown back in defeat, squeezing the smiley face stress ball she kept on her desk. Poor guy, it must be rougher on him. And then she spied something drooping out of his jacket, half-slung on the back of the chair. The meeting minutes! Surely there was more going on than just softball uniforms. A wicked whim skulked in, swaying Galaxy to use her womanhood to her advantage.

  Lee cruised closer, clearing his throat. “Okay, back to work,” he surrendered, replacing his frames so he could focus. “Any more possible threats?” The baritone tickled the cilia in her ear, setting off a chain reaction that chilled her spine.

  “Yeah… you!” Tugging him by the tufts of his hair, their foreheads touched, contemplating their tabooed predicament. Was it lust doing the negotiating or that mystical moment in the middle of the night when even bad ideas sound good?

  There was no denying their mutual attraction, and soon they were at it again. Still, Galaxy needed to strategize her ulterior motive. But how best to divert his attention? The quickest, most effective route was much too personal at this stage in the game, and since she was determined to stick to her guns against Russian roulette, the only option left was to carry-on as they were. Besides, she didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, and if she was half the spy she knew she was, it was a feat easily achieved.