by Misty Evans
"Hello, Commander,” she murmured from across the narrow aisle. Black lashes formed a protective screen over her eyes as she circled the rim of the cup with her finger. “I'm told you were assigned to be my partner."
Two seats down, a balding man in a powder blue suit lowered his Washington Post a half inch and stared at Zara with open interest. A college student in surfer shorts and an NYC T-shirt closed his cell phone and did the same. A nerve danced in Lawon's jaw even as he tamped down the heat stirring low in his stomach. What the hell was she doing? Had she lost her freakin’ mind? Did covert mean anything to her?
He stood and pulled her out of her plastic airport seat. “Let's get you a drink."
She raised the Starbuck's cup to him along with her chin. “I have a drink."
He snatched the cup out of her hand and dunked it in a nearby garbage can. “I'll buy you another.” Grabbing his carryon bag and hers with one hand, he took her by the elbow and steered her toward the nearest coffee bar with the other.
CNN flickered on a TV in the dimly lit bar. Midweek, international flights at that hour were few and the place was mostly empty. A businessman sat at one end of the bar, Bluetooth in his ear and a laptop taking up space beside his Perrier. A young mother feigning interest on the latest scandal in Washington flashing across the TV screen rocked a baby dressed in blue as she fed him a bottle.
Lawson scanned the room just like she did as she slipped into a corner booth. Catching the attention of a female employee working the counter, he held up two fingers. “Coffee,” he said over the din of piped in music and the news. Light from the TV bounced off the clerk's multiple piercings as she gave him a seductive smile and a nod.
Zara had spoken to Lawson a total of two times since that morning in France. After handing Dmitri over to his second-in-command, Johnny Quick, Lawson had checked her over from head to toe. She'd tried to brush his physical assessment aside, but he'd been thorough, picking grass out of her hair with the same diligence he used to check her vital signs and examine her bruised rib cage. His gentle touch was in stark contrast to the powerfully hard look in his eyes. She knew that look. He was angry because she'd scared him.
While her fingers trembled, his were steady. While she blubbered incoherently from shock, Lawson remained businesslike. At least until it came time to hand her over to a medical doctor in Paris. If it was possible, his intensity ratcheted up a notch.
But he didn't talk to her, only to the doctor, as if she were a four-year-old. She should have cared, should have pushed him and his meticulous concern away, but due to the shock or the drugs or the feeling in her bones, she closed her eyes and let the wave of his vigilant duty take her under.
Back at Langley, during her reckoning period with Flynn, both he and Annette mentioned Lawson had discreetly checked up on her. But when Zara had come face-to-face with him in the halls of CIA Headquarters, he'd still been businesslike, reserved. He didn't seem like the type to seek out glory, but she wondered if he expected her to fall at his feet with gratitude or shower him with praise for saving her life. She'd tried to thank him, but for some reason the words wouldn't come. Each time she'd looked in his eyes, the rescue at the farmhouse flashed through her mind like a storm. If he had intercepted Dmitri five minutes sooner, she would have been saved from creating the distraction that shaved ten years off her life from pure fear.
The intercom above their heads announced a boarding call while Zara watched Lawson watch her. He reminded her of a chess piece with his strong chin, unsmiling mouth and detailed cheekbones. A knight carved out of stone.
Not a knight. A king. His features were exactly the way she remembered them, not to mention his eyes, the color of aged moss, which were now locked on hers. Energy hummed around him and her pulse danced under her skin as she tried to read his mind. Flynn's orders or not, she wasn't leaving the country to hunt down Dmitri with Lawson unless he passed her personal test.
He leaned over the table between them, his eyes snapping with controlled anger, and lowered his voice to a growl. “Didn't Flynn explain to you that tracking Dmitri is a covert operation?"
Point one to the commander. Zara fingered the bracelet on her left wrist, willing herself not to smile, and matched his lowered voice. “I don't need Director Flynn to explain anything to me concerning Alexandrov Dmitri. Having firsthand experience with the jerk, you can bet I know what I'm doing."
His attention dropped to the silk fabric clinging to the deep V of her cleavage. “That dress is like a matador's flag. Dmitri will spot us coming a mile away."
On purpose, she widened her eyes. “You don't like the dress?"
He loved the dress, she could tell. His gaze slipped over her arms and her cleavage again. She watched him wrestle with telling her the truth, and then she saw his expression change. Whoa, not allowed. He cleared his throat, looked away and looked back. Again, his voice lowered, so much so, she could barely hear him. “The less attention we attract, the better."
Enjoying the fact her blatant sexuality could throw the king off his throne, she shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe, maybe not."
The woman behind the counter knocked on the top of the bar to gain Lawson's attention. “Order's up.” The coffees sat side by side. She toyed with one of her earrings and eyed him with open interest as he paid her with crumpled bills from his pocket. He returned with the steaming cups in hand, seemingly oblivious to the attention.
"I prefer cappuccino,” Zara said.
Lawson slipped into the booth and waited for the clerk to busy herself again before he spoke. “You want to tell me what you're up to?"
He wasn't one to play games. Her life as a spy was one continuous game, but she liked that he didn't want to play with her yet. She dropped the practiced innocence and the flirting, but kept her voice low so it wouldn't travel. “Come on, Lawson. I'm a spy. This is called subterfuge. Surely you're familiar with the term."
Sitting back in the booth, he crossed both arms over his sizable chest. In the diffused light of the table lamp, his hair reminded Zara of her mother's Russian sable cape. He smiled without the slightest hint of amusement. “Enlighten me, Miss Morgan."
After all they'd been through together, he never called her by her first name. “Dmitri and his group of thugs have disappeared with Vos Loo in tow. It's going to take something important to lure Dmitri out of his hiding place. Or maybe something less important, but equally challenging. A dare he feels confident enough he can pull off without getting caught."
Lawson continued to scan the bar as if paranoid someone was listening. “Dmitri won't surface for anything right now. Too much heat on him."
"I don't think so. He's got French authorities in his back pocket. If I know Dmitri, and I do, he's feeling pretty invincible right now."
She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced at the bitter taste. Her fingers rifled through several pink and blue sweetener packets in a plastic holder on the table before she selected one and dumped the contents of it in her coffee. In case the bartender glanced over, she smiled at Lawson, doing her best girlfriend impression. “He's outsmarted us, gained his freedom and acquired a new playmate who will net him more power and money than he's ever had before. He's in control of the gameboard and everybody knows it."
Lawson stared at her with his unwavering gaze and caught the gist of her plan. “You want to act as bait and get Dmitri to come after you."
Actually, it was the last thing she wanted to do, but Lawson didn't have to know that. “If he really believes he's untouchable, he might risk snatching me out from under everyone's noses just to see if he can. He doesn't like loose ends and he enjoys revenge. A lot."
"And what if Dmitri succeeds?” he said deadpan. “What if you flaunt yourself in front of him and he takes the bait?"
She looked him in the eye and flashed him a condescending smile. “You'll rescue me like you supposedly did the last time."
Lawson picked up his coffee. “Supposedly?"
"I rescued myself
and we both know it."
He stopped the cup halfway to his mouth. “You almost took a bullet to the brain."
There it was. Lawson's version of the farmhouse incident. She hadn't talked about that night with anyone at the Agency but Flynn and Stone and yet the gossip around Langley always had Lawson rescuing her and getting all the credit for Tim's safe rescue as well. “But I didn't. I used my defensive skills and got away from him."
"You almost got Owens killed."
She willed her voice not to rise with emotion. “If you had been there sooner, I wouldn't have had to create a distraction. There wouldn't have been a farmhouse incident. I wouldn't have a reputation like I do now."
He set the cup down without drinking. “Pegasus was in position and ready for the takedown. Communications were the issue, not my team, and if you had waited a minute or two longer—"
"Tim would have been dead. I had to create a distraction but, just so you understand, I would never have let Dmitri kill Tim or force me to kill him. I had a plan. You just showed up before I put it in play. Your timing could use work."
Lawson didn't move a muscle but anger and disbelief emanated from every cell.
How does he do that? She fiddled with another pink packet and rushed on before he could ask her about the specifics of her nonexistent plan. “I doubt Dmitri's still in Paris. He's probably not even in France."
Lawson shifted gears with ease, sinking back in his seat with slow deliberation. His voice was still hard to hear, but now it was laced with curiosity. “Where else would he go? His home base has always been France."
A faceless voice announced another boarding call over their heads. “But Vos Loo's isn't. Del Hoffman and I did some research on Doc this afternoon. He's traveled a great deal and lived in several major European cities. Amsterdam, London, Geneva, Nice. He may still have private labs in some of his old stomping grounds. Even if he doesn't go back to one of those labs, he'll have to stay in an urban area for contacts and supplies."
Lawson tapped a thumb on his coffee cup, seeming to mull over her logic. “So instead of tracking Dmitri, we track Vos Loo. Check out his past haunts. He can't build a lab from scratch without supplies. We find out who his suppliers were in the past and see if he hits them again."
"Exactly.” Zara nodded. He was passing her test with military-like efficiency. “Where Vos Loo is, Dmitri is."
"But for now, we start with Paris and we do it my way.” He glanced at her cleavage again. “No matador tricks."
His way?
Before she could protest, he jabbed the table with his fingertip. “Once we're on the ground in France, we follow the French investigation and pick up our own leads. When we locate Dmitri and Vos Loo, I'll notify Director Flynn and we'll proceed as instructed. If Flynn and Stone want to apprehend the two terrorists, that will be my job, and my job only. Your job is to assist me with research and analysis. You can also help me with my French."
"Whoa.” She held up a hand. “I'm in charge of this operation. You're assisting me."
"I'm the expert at tracking down criminals."
"But I—"
Lawson pointed his finger at her. “You're the spook. Hoffman claims you're the expert on Dmitri in or out of Langley. He says you know more about Dmitri than him and Special Agent Newton combined."
"I do, and that's why—"
He shoved his coffee cup aside and her words with it. “You're also the only living person I've got with experience dealing with this asshole. Finding Dmitri won't be easy, even for me, but I can find him"—Lawson sliced his hand through the air and tapped the edge of it on the table—"here, where he is right now.” He pointed a finger at her again. “You can figure out what he's doing and where he's going. That's why Flynn's got us working together."
Irritation, or possibly the coffee, burned a hole in Zara's stomach. “I'm perfectly capable of handling this mission on my own."
Lawson's face told her he thought differently. “My part of this mission is crucial to your success. Without me, you won't find Dmitri. We work as a team, we succeed. Either one of us goes off like a loose cannon, we fail.” He paused as if to give his next words weight. “I expect your full cooperation."
While she silently seethed, she knew he was right. If she wanted to stop Dmitri, she had to find him first. If she wanted to return to the field full time, she had to make this partnership work. Flynn was counting on her. She wouldn't let him down.
Clenching her teeth to control her emotions, she glared at Lawson. “Awfully sure of yourself, aren't you, Vaughn?"
He didn't so much as blink. “I'm one hundred percent sure of myself."
The look in his eyes said he was less sure about her. Way less sure. He considered her reckless, and it galled her, but she had to let it go. For now.
Still she wondered ... if he thought she was reckless and unfit to be his partner, why was he sitting across from her? “Why did you agree to this assignment?"
It was his turn to feign innocence. “I'm just a soldier following orders."
"Baloney. You're one of the government's special army. You don't partner up with rookie field operatives who have bad reputations."
He was quiet a second too long. “Your boss has absolute confidence in you."
There it was again, the part he left unsaid. “But you don't, because of the farmhouse incident."
The shift in his countenance was subtle—everything he did was subtle—yet she would guess her behavior in Paris wasn't the only thing causing him to doubt her abilities. The air around him, already charged with electricity, crackled. “Everyone working for the Agency has a rookie incident in their background. Most, however, are not pampered rich girls from the Upper East Side trying too hard to prove themselves in the real world."
Zara sucked in a breath. White-hot anger popped in her veins like fireworks. “Pampered rich girl?” She didn't bother to keep her voice lowered. “That's how you see me?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Challenge? It rang in his voice too. “Flynn says you'll prove me wrong on this assignment."
"You're damn right I will.” It was her turn to point a finger. “I take my job just as seriously as you do."
The intensity in his gaze, in his face, evaporated for a second. As if it was all in good fun, he smiled at her, for real this time. “Good."
Feeling like she'd been had, Zara glanced around the dimly lit bar, trying to regroup. The bartender once again watched Lawson with unabashed admiration. Zara made snake eyes at her. Back off.
Lawson sat silent, waiting. But for what? For Zara to laugh it off? Slap him on the back? Yell at him?
Flynn had trained her better. She could control her emotions just as effectively as Lawson. The cards were all out on the table, and at least now she knew how he worked, how he viewed everything.
Pampered rich girl ... she'd show him. Forcing herself to close the door on that observation, she searched for a different subject. Glancing down at her bracelet, she remembered a question she'd meant to ask him. “I lost my gold chain that morning at the farmhouse. You didn't find it lying around, did you?"
Back to business, he shook his head and glanced at his watch. “Our plane will start boarding in twenty minutes. You need to change into something less"—he paused and scanned what he could see of her dress again—"memorable. Please tell me you have one of those conservative office suits with you."
Leaning forward like she was about to share a secret, she crooked her finger at him. Like a magnet drawn to steel, he responded, bringing his face a few inches from hers. His dark green eyes searched hers and her pulse kicked hard.
"For the record,” she said, ignoring her pulse and making her voice sticky sweet, “in the real world no one tells me how to dress."
She was surprised to see him nod. “I'll remember that."
Reestablishing control was good. “Also for the record? The red dress was a test.” She gestured for him to hand her the black and white bag.
&nbs
p; Watching her rise, he handed her the bag and then grabbed his own. “A test?"
"You don't really think I want to attract the attention of a psychotically deranged man, do you?"
"You did it before."
Right. “Yeah, that's a pampered rich girl for you."
There was another one of his cryptic pauses. He shifted the carryon bags. “So did I pass?"
"Yes,” she admitted. “That test you passed."
"That test? There's more to come?"
She smiled knowingly and left him standing there to wonder.
He followed her out of the bar and to the entrance of the women's restroom, laying a hand on her arm to stop her before she entered. When he spoke, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “From here on out, you need to be hyperaware of your surroundings. Make sure you know where every exit is and don't let yourself get backed into a corner. Pay attention to the people around you, and even when your pants are literally down, don't leave yourself open to an ambush. Got it?"
Zara almost laughed. Hadn't she survived the Farm, survived Dmitri and sailed through Flynn's special training? She leaned away from him. “Is this your James Bond mode?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I.” She removed her arm from his grip. “Save the paranoia for Paris.” Using her rear end, she pushed open the restroom door. “I know what I'm doing."
She didn't miss the slight narrowing of his eyes in disbelief.
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Chapter Four
Once Zara disappeared into the restroom, Lawson pulled out his digitally encrypted cell phone and dialed up his favorite technical support dweeb. “You owe me twenty, Yankee,” he drawled when Del Hoffman answered.
"She agreed?” The twenty-five-year-old snorted. “I can't believe Tango's partnered with you, Rebel."
