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

  He takes my hand in the lobby. “Sorry you had a rough day,” he whispers. “Still need those swear words?”

  I can’t help the laugh. “We can save them for next time.”

  Of course I could tell Danny the truth about Brand. Of course he’d understand. Of course he’d sympathize. He knows who Brand is, everything he did to me.

  And of course, my phone rings as soon as we’re out of the building.

  But I’m not expecting this caller. Will. I pull Danny to a stop halfway through the parking lot. “Hello?” My tone walks a fine line between curious and cautious. To preserve his new cover, Will is never, ever supposed to have contact with me, especially not over the phone.

  “Talia, do you and Danny have plans for tonight?”

  “Does mac ’n’ cheese and a movie count?”

  “Macaroni and cheese?” Will’s disdain makes it obvious he hasn’t totally degenerated, despite living alone for I don’t know how long. “Let me treat you. Early wedding present.”

  No such thing as a free lunch, or a free dinner. But how could I say no — without looking suspicious, without offending Will, without at least trying to see if Brand’s blowing smoke?

  I have no choice. Tonight I have to have dinner with my fiancé, and a potential traitor.

  I leave out that last part when I convey the message to Danny, though. He agrees, as long as he drives, so we don’t feed my paranoia. (My paranoia is very healthy; skipping one “meal” won’t hurt it. Might hurt me.)

  We head in the general direction of the embassy, and I spend half the drive researching the place Will chose. Once my GPS app has taken over, Danny starts the conversation. (His day was fine. I rest assured.) “You never told me how dress shopping went Saturday.”

  I pull my hand back from playing with his hair where it flips out behind his ears. His little note of trepidation had better be my imagination. “No, I told you about it yesterday.”

  He shoots me a really? look. “When you said, ‘Beth, Beth and Beth hate me’?”

  “Hey, you were listening.” I can play this off, right? “Besides, you don’t seriously want to hear about a shopping trip, do you?”

  Danny doesn’t say anything, and I know I’ve played the wrong card. Not like the guy likes shopping — who does? — but apparently he needs to know . . . something. “Abby had an idea for another store to try,” I say.

  “Didn’t find what you wanted at this place? Or did they give you trouble?”

  “No, just . . .” Just me. Danny’s greatest fear is discovering he’s married a psychopath. My greatest fear is that his is about to come true.

  I’m insane I’m insane I’m insane. Sane people don’t do this. They don’t treat the people they love this way. They don’t rack up guilt and doubts faster than wedding gifts and debts. They don’t second-guess themselves this way. Do they?

  They definitely don’t make at least three stops on the shortest drive to be sure no one’s following them. They definitely don’t search their apartment every time they get home. They definitely don’t avoid restaurants where they can’t see their food being prepared.

  Yep, insane.

  No. I will not let those worries rule me. “Maybe I’m being too picky.”

  “Talia?” Danny’s voice carries the same doubts that are plaguing me.

  I force extra eagerness into my tone. “It’s just hard when you’ve got something in mind, you know? And I want this to be perfect.”

  “Talia.”

  “But I’m sure we’ll find something at the next place and Abby’s confident —”

  “Talia.” His tone has sharpened to an edge, slicing off my protests. In the sudden silence, my own words, my own voice register with me, and I can hear the false, tinny brightness.

  I have to try harder. I know my dress isn’t a bigger deal to him than it is to me. It’s not about the dress. It’s about how badly I’m already screwing this up. Because I’m insane.

  How can I tell him I’m terrified? How can I tell him anything?

  I’ve already had too many people turn on me because of the truth. What if Danny hates the real me, the truth, just like all my so-called friends in DC? I’ve let him into so many secrets, but what if this is one too many?

  Suddenly this lie is more than a little fib. It’s my only protection.

  The GPS app announces our exit and Danny merges onto Nicholas Street. “Sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m glad you’re excited about your dress.”

  “I know.”

  “And I love you,” he finally murmurs.

  “Danny, I know. I love you too.”

  He scrutinizes me a second, like he’s gauging whether to believe me. The GPS takes over the talking, winding us through ByWard Market. “Where are we going again?” Danny asks.

  I pull up the restaurant website on my phone. “It’s called Play. York Street.”

  That’s when I notice the little flag in the corner of the page. Play is a sister restaurant to Beckta, both owned by the same chef. And Beckta is where Danny took me to dinner the first time he kissed me, the first time he told me he loved me.

  It’s also at least $60 a head. Will’s paying, right? And I assume he made reservations.

  Something about this doesn’t feel right. Will breaks protocol and calls me at the last minute to invite us to a $200 reservations-required dinner?

  Brand. Is. Wrong. Right?

  I try to talk up my dress again, to reassure Danny one more time, but he kind of obviously cuts me off to hunt for parking. By the time we meet Will at the door, I can’t tell if the pressure on my ribs is more about wedding planning or whatever Will’s planning.

  We walk in, and I size up Will. He seems the same: same graying temples, same worry furrows, same eyes you can’t help but trust. I avoid them as we take a seat at the gleaming wood bar. I doubt most people would want to sit here, though I’m in heaven — the bar is next to the glowing kitchen, and I can watch them prepare everything.

  Chalk one up to my paranoia.

  On a date with my fiancé, I don’t ask about Elliott, and Will doesn’t tell. The server comes by with her spiel about playing with their flavors and their small plates and their suggested wine pairings. At least we’ll be saving Will a few bucks there.

  Will orders us the charcuterie mixed plate. I have no idea what that is, though I’m in no position to negotiate, especially not once Will discreetly tells the server he’ll pick up the check.

  Discreetly? Uh, yeah. Spy.

  I let Will steer the conversation in Danny’s direction and observe for a few minutes as they both deflect questions about the classified portions of their work. (It’s weird that I find that endearing from Danny, huh?) Something’s different about Will, definitely, but I can’t imagine —

  Doesn’t matter what I can imagine. It only matters what I can see here, what he says without speaking. And while that’s not sending the exact same message as when he was my boss, the change doesn’t seem to be one for the worse. No way he could have fooled us all this long.

  Then again, it’s happened before. Not just Aldrich Ames. Double agents who’ve tricked officers and examiners for decades. False flags. Moles.

  I have to forget everything I know about Will and watch him like an impartial hawk.

  The plate of sausage, prosciutto, salami and sides arrives, and the conversation lags while we eat. I watch Danny smear part of the spoonful of brown I-don’t-know-what onto a little piece of toast. I saw them prepare our food, but they don’t exactly use a big bin labeled with the ingredients. “Tell me that isn’t spreadable meat.”

  “Cretons.” Danny offers me a bite. “Big in Quebec.”

  Apparently I’m as out of place with haute cuisine as haute couture. I decline; Danny pops the tiny crostini into his mouth with relish. (The metaphorical kind, not the maple-sour apple stuff on the plate. Now that I’d eat with a spoon.) The waiter arrives to take our orders for the next round with perfect
timing. Danny picks the pork belly with sweet potato, I settle on the roasted beets with quinoa and blueberries, and Will has the hanger steak and “fries.” The menu says “frites,” but it’s hardly worth correcting him. He’s survived this long in Canada without French.

  We revert to small talk as we survey the kitchen. I’ve watched many chefs make my food; this is different. Yeah, the premise of the place is playing with food and flavors, but I’ve never observed this level of adeptly arranged anarchy in a kitchen. Everything placed just so. Everything presented just right. Everything pieced together just perfectly. Hard not to be in awe of the choreographed chaos.

  I know a little about choreographed chaos.

  Much as I’m enjoying the show, I have something else I need to watch. I excuse myself to run to the restroom before our plates come. When I return, Will and Danny are chatting. I hang back for a minute to eavesdrop on their candid conversation.

  I do not spy on Danny — but it’s not him I’m spying on.

  However, he’s the one doing all the talking, using his hands to represent an imaginary plane to demonstrate some aerospace principle.

  Will gives him a yes-and-let-me-tell-you-more-about-this look and jumps in. “So all they have to do to avoid the missile is accelerate.”

  “Yep. When your cruising speed is Mach 3.2, not a whole lot can catch you.” Danny turns back to the empty charcuterie platter and idly pushes the spoon that held the cretons away. “Except for the Concorde, of course.”

  “Oh yeah.” Will leans forward eagerly. “There’s some serious speed.”

  “Yep.” Danny still stares at the plate, though his shoulders have shifted. Why’s he uncomfortable?

  Will presses on. “That might be what they’ve been working on in the drone my friend was telling me about. He said they had to redesign the airspeed indicator to get an accurate reading.”

  In profile, Danny’s expression reads somewhere between intrigued and incredulous.

  This doesn’t feel right to me, though I can’t pin down why. If it were anyone else — two anyone elses — I’d wait and see how this developed. But Danny isn’t just anyone, and neither is Will. I slide back onto the stool between them and pick up the menu. “Quelque chose te tracasse?” I murmur to Danny. Is something bothering you? (See?)

  “Plus tard,” he mutters back. Later. I want to ask more, but our food arrives with a flourish, each plate the size of an appetizer at any other restaurant. Danny leans in to whisper to me: “Nobody touched your food.”

  I shoot him a smile before I attack my plate. My beets aren’t just beets; they’re sweet and they’re earthy, with the quinoa popping in my mouth alongside the tart blueberries. I almost feel guilty enjoying all this on Will’s tab. But it was his idea and we are saving the guy thirty bucks by skipping the suggested wines, so I try to swallow my guilt and savor the rest.

  The waiter swoops in at the perfect second to take orders for the next round. Will goes for lamb and polenta, I order gnocchi in brown butter cream, and Danny asks for tuna tataki.

  Once the waiter’s gone, Will takes over the discussion. “You’re a fan of the SR-71?”

  I’m guessing he doesn’t mean me. Danny shrugs. “Sure, though there’s a lot to be said for its predecessor, the —”

  “The A-12?” Will cuts him off.

  Danny’s lips twist like he was expecting Will to bring that up. (I wasn’t. Totally lost.) “I think that’s it, yeah,” Danny says. “I’ve never kept up on Skunk Works stats.”

  Now I know what they’re talking about: “Skunk Works” is the nickname for a secret aerospace R&D division, and its CIA-funded black projects.

  Will fiddles with his wineglass. “Most of it isn’t common knowledge. People today don’t remember the Cold War. Don’t want to hear their tax dollars went to paying off witnesses, or guards’ six-figure salaries, or chefs on call twenty-four/seven for steak and lobster.”

  Danny merely watches him.

  Will steeples his fingers on the bar. “I guess it makes them wonder what we’re spending money on these days. Because the more things change . . .”

  I know what the CIA spends money on, and, yeah, the taxpayers definitely wouldn’t like it. We try to keep the steak and lobster to a minimum, and only for special occasions, though cash for information isn’t any more palatable.

  Danny’s finally fully onboard with this conversation. “Speaking of the Cold War — heard of the Avro Arrow? Delta-wing interceptor from the fifties. Canadian, axed right after flight tests started.”

  I clamp down on a groan. He. Is. Obsessed. With that thing. “Not this again,” I mutter.

  Danny winks at me. “Did I tell you? There’s a full prototype on display in Toronto. I’m thinking honeymoon.”

  I shoot him a glare. I expect him to get me out of Ontario at the very least. He ignores me and leans forward to make eye contact with Will again. “Would we need that travel form?”

  “Better safe than sorry.” Will draws an envelope from his jacket pocket — and draws the discussion back to his real topic. “The Arrow does sound familiar. I’m sure the real DS&T guys would love to talk all about it.”

  “They’re not the ones I’m curious about.” Danny stabs a straggling candied pecan. It shatters, flying in three different directions. “Rumor has it the Arrow got spooked.”

  Clever. The CIA’s possible role in killing the Arrow is something I really don’t want to know about. But Danny does. Will leans closer to me. Closer to Danny, passing the envelope over the bar. (I nab it before Danny can.) “Now that takes clearances.” He leans back to let the waiter slide his lamb, extra rare, in front of him.

  Wait. My gaze stays on the gnocchi in front of me, but my mind strays seven weeks away. My last big case involved aerospace — and Will didn’t know word one on the subject. I had to become the subject matter expert, with Danny’s help. The realization lands in my gut like rubble, and the CIA’s gold-for-gossip policy isn’t the only thing less than palatable.

  I know exactly what Will is doing. I’ve done it myself, time and again.

  He’s setting Danny up. To recruit him to DS&T. To the CIA.

  Would that be a terrible thing? Transferring back to Langley, a snug, safe desk job, working for the same “Company” as Danny?

  As sweet as it sounds on the surface, underneath there’s the dark, hulking truth: if Danny were induced to take the job, if he took it for my sake, if he were trying to please me . . .

  I poke at the little potato pillows on my plate. Even the perfectly nutty butter balanced with the salty-tangy-sweet relish doesn’t taste right. I finish, but when Will suggests dessert, I decline. Danny agrees and takes my hand under the bar.

  That should reassure me.

  It doesn’t.

  After profuse thanks, we’re out of there as fast as possible. Danny keeps quiet through the hasty retreat, through the walk to his car, through half the drive back to pick up mine. “So what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I don’t even have a twinge of guilt to ignore at the universal girl lie.

  “You refused dessert. Obviously you’re not okay.”

  I wave away his worry. “Too fancy. I just want to go home. Don’t you have ice cream?”

  “Cookies.”

  We stop at a red light and Danny turns to scrutinize me. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Will, does it?”

  “What?” I’m pretty good at feigning ignorance, but I’m not sure I’m really trying. “Why would you think that?”

  “Has he always been into planes?”

  How much should I say? “I dunno.”

  “Because anyone who knew the first thing about aerospace should’ve laughed in my face. The Concorde barely doubles the speed of sound. The SR-71 more than triples it.”

  “You — you just — you’re tricky.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  I toss off a smirk. “But would everyone know that?”

  “We’re talking about a really fast
, really big passenger jet versus the fastest air-breathing manned aircraft ever flown.”

  I’m too preoccupied to point out I wouldn’t put that together unless led down the path. The silence slowly grows stale.

  Will’s talking way over his own head — always a bad idea in recruitment. But that means he’s recruiting Danny.

  Recruiting him to the CIA. Not to an enemy he’s supposedly working for. Right?

  “Talia? Everything okay?”

  I don’t have to look at Danny — the worry in his voice hangs over the car like a shadow. He pulls onto the shoulder, and we sit in the silence.

  How can I tell him? I pick the fastest, shortest way, like each syllable of the truth costs me a pound of flesh. “I think Will’s trying to recruit you to DS&T.”

  “No, you think?” Danny’s voice is laden with sarcasm.

  “You could . . . tell?”

  “Of course.”

  I watch him for a minute. “Do you want to join DS&T?”

  “Do you want me to?” His voice is almost a whisper, like he barely dares to ask.

  “I don’t — I don’t know. I mean, I’m just — I’m going nuts here. This thing with Will is freaking me out, and work, and planning and dress shopping —”

  “Whoa, one thing at a time. When’s your next shopping trip?”

  “In a week.” We only have four weeks until our wedding, and I’m supposed to be excited about this, so I rush to explain. “The store has these weird hours, and I’ve got meetings —”

  “Stop.” Danny reaches across the center console for my hand. “This isn’t like you. And not in a ‘trying to not be so paranoid and it’s hard’ way. In a . . . weird way. Bizarrely excited.”

  I sigh. “Don’t you want me to be excited?”

  “Excited is fine — great. But airheaded, giggly . . . lace? Have you ever worn lace?”

  “I just want it to be perfect.” I think he can hear the real message right through those words: I want me to be perfect.

  Danny waits until I have the nerve to meet his gaze. “You do realize this wedding is only one day of our lives, right?”

  I let an eyebrow sneak upward. “The most important day of our lives . . . ?”