Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  I know his next move — run that hand down my arm. Not this time, buddy. I sweep a forearm block and knock his grip loose. “Don’t pull that with me.”

  He recovers fast enough to grab my wrist before I can snatch it back. “Wait a second.” He unfists my hand and examines my fingers — and the band of channel-set diamonds. “Married?”

  “Just about.” I wrench my fingers free. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Brand smirks. “Guess things do change.”

  “No, nothing’s changed.”

  He gives this little glimpse of innuendo that’s all I need to push me over the edge to nausea.

  I have to get out of here, get away, get air. It takes all my will power not to fumble backward. With the way he’s looming over me now, I don’t have room to open the door. But I have to get out — what bait do I have to throw him to make my escape? “You know what? Come meet Samir if you want. I have to go.”

  “When and where?”

  “Now, and lunch?”

  Brand gets the joke, though he won’t accept the answer. “When. And. Where.”

  I can’t look at him. If I lie, he’ll make work even more uncomfortable next week. “Motel du Chevalier, Gatineau. Eight-ish.”

  Danny’s been helping me with my French, and the practice shows, but I doubt that’s why Brand’s con man smile dawns again. “It’s a date.”

  “Right.” I don’t bother softening the sardonic bite. Brand retreats enough for me to open the door. Three feet into free air, it hits me: I committed a critical error.

  There’s a reason I didn’t mention Danny to him and vice versa. There’s a reason I didn’t produce my living proof that I’ve moved on. There’s a reason my hands — my left hand flew to fidgeting every time he cornered me.

  I didn’t want him to know about Danny. And now he does. If Brand wants to torment me, he can dig around and dig up more about him. Possibly find him. I could show up at his house one day to find Brand lounging in the living room, trying to convince Danny they’re old friends so he can share notes on me. Danny isn’t dumb, and he’d never fall for that, but the remotest possibility of those two meeting? No. No. Never.

  “And the latest dumps from the Russians’ bug are in,” Brand calls from his door. He ducks back in his office. The detonation cord wrapped around my heart is still on a hair trigger.

  I’m late to meet Danny, and I need him — now. I check the office. Robby’s already packing up, but he’s my only choice. “Robby, translate for me?”

  “But —”

  “You owe me.”

  He groans. “Fine.”

  I send him the files and pretty much run to the parking lot. I can barely wait until I’m in my car to call Danny.

  “Sorry I’m running late. Big project.” He launches into the conversation before I can apologize for the same thing. “Should we meet somewhere?”

  And risk Brand tailing me and seeing Danny? I check my mirror. Coast is still clear. “No, if you’re that busy, I should come eat there.”

  Pause. “You hate eating here.”

  He’s got me. He knows the full list of reasons I hate it: you can’t watch your food being prepared, weirdos (and enemies) have too much access in the buffet-style setting, and grownup cafeteria food is still cafeteria food.

  And oh, yeah, because I’m insane. Danny doesn’t usually list that reason. Not sure whether he’s overlooking or trying to forget it. Or help me get over it. He tries to tolerate my paranoid quirks, and I’ve been trying to slowly rein them in for his sake.

  But now, I want to disappear in the noise and bustle of a hundred other people jostling for their lunches. I want to rely on the real safety in numbers. I want to take advantage of the security that’s good enough that I can’t charm my way past. (I’ve tried.)

  I want Danny.

  “Hey,” I say. “You’re the one who wants me to dial down the paranoia.”

  “Yeah, but could you do it more slowly? Maybe less Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”

  “Picky, picky. Be there in five.” Already, the tension is leaching out of my shoulders. I check my mirror again: Brand isn’t behind me today. He says he’s over me. Yes, he’s still a manipulative jerk (though let’s be honest: a spy’s job is based on manipulation, so you can’t color me surprised here), and yeah, Brand’s wormed his way onto my case like he wanted all along. But I can still mitigate the damage. Right?

  I try to convince myself of that through the short drive to Danny’s office and the long line in Danny’s cafeteria. He must be able to tell something’s wrong, because he asks if I’m okay three times. Finally he accepts that he’s not the only one with a big project he shouldn’t discuss for national security. If schemes to escape Brand long-term count.

  I swear, no matter how smart or upscale or big the company, corporate cafeterias are all the same. We march our food that was probably palatable when they put it in the display fridges yesterday through a maze of the same nondescript tables and plastic chairs I’ve seen in a hundred settings like this until we find two seats available side by side. (Danny’s idea.)

  I hook my heels over Danny’s crossed ankles, still trying to come up with a way to force Brand to leave me alone. That tension I thought I was escaping tugs my shoulders taut again. Halfway through my sad sweet and sour chicken balls, Danny leans close to my ear. “Ma puce?”

  A term of endearment — but it means “my flea.” Since everything sounds more romantic in a French accent, seems the French decided everything’s a nickname for your sweetheart.

  I return Danny’s worried look and pick my own stupid-but-real-(in-France) endearment: duck. “Mon canard?”

  “You’re thinking.”

  My concerned expression is history, and I nail him with a sarcastic glare. “Thanks for noticing. Figured I’d give it a try. First time for everything.”

  He matches my sardonic look. “I’ve seen you think before, just not with your mouth closed.”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  And my humor tactic bombs. His smirk dissolves into apprehension. “You okay?”

  “Worried about work.”

  Danny peers into my eyes a minute longer. “That’s all?”

  I could tell him now. It’d be so easy. My boss is my ex-boyfriend. Danny would understand exactly what that means. He’s Danny.

  Telling him would also give him another reason for concern. We’re putting together a wedding in under three months, and I can’t finalize the dress or the location or anything but the groom. Now my last boyfriend before Danny shows up?

  I’m better off handling the worry for both of us. “That’s all.”

  Danny leans a little nearer to trace a fingertip along my jaw, drawing me even closer. Normally we’re not much for PDA, though I’m not sure I care as he moves in. His lips touch mine, and the cafeteria sounds fade into the background.

  Kisses are supposed to make your heart race and your palms sweat and your temperature skyrocket. Not this kiss. Soft. Gentle. Slow. Like he doesn’t care who’s watching.

  And neither do I. The irritation thrumming in my veins fades away. The lingering tension in my shoulders dissipates. The anger coiled around my chest disappears.

  I drink in this moment, this love, this kiss, like cool water in an oasis.

  Danny pulls back entirely too soon. “Hi,” he whispers.

  “Hi, yourself.” I soak in his gaze, the soft smile — not the genuine, amazing, eye-crinkling version, but the one that says I love you and I can’t believe you’re real. “What was that for?”

  “To take your mind off whatever it is.”

  My laugh is way closer to a giggle. “It worked.”

  A tray clatters onto the table across from Danny, but he doesn’t jump away from me.

  “Don’t you have an office where you can do that?” A short, redheaded guy plops into the chair. I know him from a Christmas party or something. Roger, I think?

  “Jealousy actually suits you.” Da
nny offers Roger a grin with the good-natured teasing, and slides an arm around me — sorry, Rodge. Taken. “You’ll have to get used to it.”

  Roger turns to me. “You know you don’t have to put up with this guy, right? Not too late to back out. Plenty of other fish in Canada.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  Right. “Took this guy a year to wear me down. Nobody else on the planet is that patient.”

  “Good thing,” Danny murmurs.

  Roger mentions ailerons, and Danny sits up straighter to tackle this new challenge. I doubt he minds if I tune them out, glancing up at the ubiquitous TVs tuned to CBC News. They’re finishing up the world briefs. Nothing of any particular interest to me: an election upset in Chile (probably not our fault), political shifts in Morocco (possibly our fault), and —

  And Hassam-ud-Din Wasti’s latest video, promulgated from his secret hideout. Threatening jihad. Big. Close. Soon.

  Definitely not our fault.

  Definitely something Samir would have intel about.

  Definitely my responsibility to find out.

  I’m on my feet before the newscaster can move on to the next segment. Yeah, that’s not obvious. I check Danny’s reaction. He and Roger are still bent over a serviette (napkin in Canadian), sketching a plane wing. Perfect timing.

  I brush a quick kiss on Danny’s cheek. “Gotta go.”

  “Hey, no —” He shoves the napkin aside. “We can talk about the design later —”

  “It’s not that. Just remembered something at the office. You keep working. Love you.”

  “You too.” Danny waits until I have to look at him again to add, “Drive safe.”

  The real message hangs behind his eyes: be safe. Don’t get killed. Come back to me.

  “Always.”

  I escort myself out. I’ve got to get back, check in with Will to see what we know — wait, no. Brand.

  If Wasti’s unknown whereabouts and latest video are hitting the international newswire, we should already know about it, a fact Brand definitely didn’t bother telling me. Isn’t that something I should know to recruit his cousin? It would’ve at least buoyed up Brand’s case for pitching him now instead of developing him a little more.

  Something else is going on. It has to be. Can I trust Brand?

  If I’m questioning that, I’m really not sure this work situation will work out. I mean, I didn’t always agree with Will, but at least I knew he had my back.

  I stop short at my car door. I don’t know where to go — track down Samir at work (dangerous for him), go back to the office and pretend nothing happened (not helpful), head straight in to Brand (dangerous for me)?

  At the thought of facing Brand again, a shudder runs through me. Though my mind plays reruns of today’s all-too-close encounters, the gnawing at my stomach isn’t only about being in tight quarters with the creep.

  Is all this stay-away-from-Brand panic more about my personal feelings or my intuition as a spy? I’ve been so caught up in trying to avoid the guy and all my memories that I don’t know if I’ve really worked to get an accurate read on him. If that’s possible.

  I’ve got to try. I’m back at our building in five minutes, but before I can state my objectives for the afternoon, a gray van rolls to a stop behind my car, trapping me. I suck in oxygen, steeling myself to start the car and jump the curb if necessary, and check the rearview.

  The van’s driver is perfectly shellacked and spray tanned (okay, probably not that): Brand.

  I should feel relieved, but . . . nope. He nods for me to come along. Again, not so much. I get out of my car and start for the building, placing the row of cars between us like a shield.

  The van glides backward, keeping pace with me. “Davay.”

  I shoot him a glower. Though my Russian knowledge isn’t quite classified, it’s not something I broadcast, either. At all. Danny didn’t even know until I had to tell him everything.

  “Vi ruskiye druz'ya,” Brand tries again.

  My Russian friends, huh? If that’s the best he can do in Russian, he’s going to need my help. (He said, “Y’all Russian friends.” Should be “Vashi ruskiye druz'ya.”) Maybe this is my chance to prove to him I’m CIA material, in Canada or anywhere else. I reroute like I was planning on intersecting their path all along and reach his window. “What’s up?”

  Justin leans forward to chime in from the passenger seat. “You translated the tapes from the Russians’ contact mic, right?”

  “No, Robby did.”

  “Well, the Russians joined a gun club, and we need to figure out which one.”

  I can think of a dozen ways to do that, from tailing them to phone surveys to checking their garbage. But what does Brand have in mind? “What’s this, a ride-along?” I look back to the dude cajoling me in Russian. Is Brand trying to steal this case from me, too? “I got this.” More steel creeps into my tone than I planned.

  Doesn’t faze Brand. “Do you? If it weren’t for you, we’d still have the apartment next door, and we wouldn’t have to resort to this op. You’re lucky we’re including you at all.”

  “Excuse me? I saved the day there.” I look to Justin again for confirmation.

  None comes. “Like I said,” Brand concludes, “you’re lucky we’re including you.”

  New strategy. “Then why don’t you ask somebody who isn’t such a screw up?” I bite back an insult, but if Brand’s such hot stuff and we Canadian officers are so crappy, why’d he get sent here?

  “Number one, Robby’s busy. Number two, we need someone they haven’t met to join their club. Who did you think it’d be?” This time he’s the one who lets the slight go unsaid, though I can practically see the condescending little chuckle of You? fighting to get out.

  “I could. I could join the gun club — I could run this op.”

  The smirk finally sneaks free. “Sure.”

  Heat burns across my face. Fine. I will prove it. I stride around to the back of the van and hop in. Before Brand takes off, he exchanges a little fist bump with Justin.

  Great. Him too. Brand will figure out I’m not a new hire anymore. He’ll trust me, he’ll tell me about stuff like Wasti’s new video, and we can all get back to work. Let’s do this.

  Brand turns back to talk to me. “Justin says you were a blonde at Morozov’s building?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pity. I’ve got a thing for blondes.”

  Disgust and dread battle in my belly. I don’t know what he means, and I don’t want to find out. Within an hour, we’re setting up downtown, and I find I was absolutely right. Justin’s driving the van, staking out the street, while Brand’s kitted out with an earpiece and micro-microphone, which he forced me to put on him. He paces the sidewalk by the Marriott, wheeling his carry-on suitcase, biding his time, watching for a very special taxicab.

  And me? Exactly where I don’t belong: by Brand’s side. I twist the ring around my finger. At least I convinced him I should switch out my real ring for fake bling.

  We — okay, Brand — decided work would be the best place to approach the guy. When you’re targeting a cab driver, that’s more variable, so we’ve been waiting along his route for a while once we got set up. I’ve passed the time maneuvering our suitcases between us so Brand isn’t tempted to sell this “second honeymoon” cover too hard. (I might have to hit him too hard.)

  Finally Brand steps up to the curb and hails a cab. Man, I hate not being on comms. I was too busy battling him over what ring to use to fight for an earpiece. The taxi slides in front of us. Brand tosses his suitcase in the trunk and hops in the back.

  Sure, make your “wife” load her own luggage at the end of your romantic getaway. I try not to grumble while I throw my bag in the trunk. I check behind us. Justin’s pulling into traffic.

  At least one thing’s going right. I slam the trunk and join Brand in the backseat. Shudder.

  Brand slides an arm around my waist. He doesn’t seem to notice I lean away while he drums up a totally one-sided co
nversation with the stocky blond driver about the songs playing on the radio (American pop), the weather (getting nippy), the economy (could always be better). Before we’ve made it through two traffic lights, he’s established his salesman persona perfectly: gregarious, outgoing and loud.

  Not that different from real-life Brand. Watching him work, I can see exactly why he’d do well in the Agency. He’s the ultimate inside man: he can charm anyone, anytime, anywhere.

  Worked on me, didn’t it?

  “Let the poor man do his job,” I mutter. I pull away from him again.

  He slides closer. “It’s fine, honey. I’m sure driving all day is boring.” He hesitates a second before he haltingly slaughters the next two words. “Yevgeniy Morozov, where are you from?”

  “Nizhny,” he says, even those two syllables clipped.

  “Is that in Russia? I know a little Russian! Izvinite, pozhaluysta . . . ya . . . ne govorite . . . russki.” Grammatically, that’s the equivalent of Excuse me, please, I doesn’t speak in Russian. No wonder he needs my help.

  “Khorosho.” Fine. Yeah, sort of.

  Brand forges right ahead. “Been here long?”

  “Since July.”

  Brand finally releases me to lean over the seat, lowering his voice like he’s initiating a new BFF. “Corporate wants to transfer me here, but I don’t know. You like it?”

  I watch Morozov, but don’t hear a response. I’m guessing it’s not a no, since Brand continues that tack. “What I’m most worried about is the kids.”

  Ugh. I hate him even more for my begrudging admiration: his I’m-such-a-tortured-soul look is classic. Brand hangs on to the cover until Morozov’s eyes flick to the mirror.

  “We had a break-in a couple months ago. The kids have taken it hard.” Brand’s note of earnestness could even have me caring, concerned, convinced. Until he takes my hand. Then I’m only concerned about myself.

  I have to play this role, too. Of course he’d force me into something like this. “Don’t know if we’d feel safe without a gun in the house,” I murmur.

  “That would be difficult here.”

  A complete sentence? I hold back a smile. Either Brand knows we’ve reached the limits of that topic, or he doesn’t want me to show him up, since he steers the conversation another direction. “Checked home prices in the area?”