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

  “Came today.” Danny shuts my door and rounds the car to get in the driver’s seat. “Open it.”

  I tear back the flap and pull out the papers inside. The first page has instructions for . . . what to wear. A wedding dress? I furrow my brow and study Danny.

  He takes the stack of papers back and shuffles through them until he finds one that he gives to me. I recognize the letterhead immediately: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And in the corner, Nauvoo Illinois Temple below an illustration of the iconic building. I cast him one quick glance and try to ignore the hope — elation — filling my chest.

  “Figured it was close enough, or far enough, for everyone. But they were booked.”

  The little rise of hope puffs out faster than flash paper.

  And then Danny continues. “Except for a seven PM slot on the twenty-eighth.”

  “That’s a . . .” I mentally review the calendar. “Wednesday. Who gets married on a Wednesday?”

  “We do, if we’re going to do this at all.”

  I spear him with a sarcastic expression. “There’s an ‘if we’re going to do this’? Is a little international conspiracy supposed to keep us from getting married? You’ll have to try a lot harder than that.”

  “I’ll have to try harder?” He looks heavenward. “You’re welcome.”

  “For what?”

  “Let’s see.” He ticks off the items on his fingers. “Arranging the wedding pretty much singlehandedly, scheduling the honeymoon, and . . . oh yeah, saving your life. Again.”

  I shoot him an evil look. “Hey, last time, I saved you, thank you very much.”

  “Let’s try to nip that habit in the bud. Starting to get embarrassing.”

  I lean across the console to lay my head on his shoulder. “So, tell me about these honeymoon plans.”

  “Nope.”

  “Fine. I’m sure I’ll enjoy Paris just as much, surprise or not.”

  Danny pulls back to gape at me, truly hurt. What did I —? “You said you wouldn’t look.”

  “Oh — oh — I was kidding.” My disappointment rings through in my voice. “I didn’t mean to guess.”

  He purses his lips for a minute. “You’re tricky.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  His eyes turn serious. “Thank you.”

  “It’s not that kind of gift,” I joke.

  “No, for calling me — calling anybody tonight.”

  “Seems like I should be the one thanking you.” I’d only be dead if it weren’t for him.

  “You didn’t have to call. And you did.”

  “You didn’t have to come.” I offer my hand over the center console, like he did to me last night. He takes it. “And you did.”

  “Pretty glad I did, too.”

  In the glow off the National Gallery, he gives me half a smile. I did the right thing texting him, and not just because he saved my life. Because I was letting him in. Because I trusted him.

  “Did I ever tell you Finnish is my first language?” I’ve spoken Finnish in front of Danny, but mixed with Russian, so I doubt he knows this little fact.

  He quick-shakes his head in surprise. “No — really?”

  “En valehtelisi.” I wait a minute before I add the translation, “I wouldn’t lie. Rakastan sinua.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “It means ‘I love you.’”

  “Oh, now, that I know.” He leans across the center console. Before he kisses me, he whispers again, “That I know.”

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  TOMORROW WE SPY

  DURHAM CREST BOOKS

  Cover design by Steven Novak

  © 2014 Jordan McCollum

  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.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First printing, 2014

  For my children,

  who mean everything.

  Thank you.

  I don’t spy. Even the CIA doesn’t expect its operatives to work on their honeymoons. So every morning for the last week and a half, I’ve woken up reminding myself of three things:

  I’m married to Danny (and it’s okay to find him in bed next to me).

  I’m in Paris (and it’s okay to be in this strange apartment).

  I’m currently on vacation (and it’s okay to not be my usual paranoid self, though my station in Canada isn’t exactly an espionage hotbed).

  After a dozen repetitions, it’s finally setting in. This morning I don’t even remember my “affirmations” until after I finish making breakfast for my husband with our adorable octogenarian hostess, Sylvie. She arranges the hot chocolate carafe, fresh fruit and pain au chocolat on her tray while I load the rest of the food on mine.

  “Es-tu prête, Talia?” she asks.

  I smile to mask the anticipation flittering in my middle. Of course I’m ready. “Allons-y.” I lead us to the back hallway and the tornado stairs from her apartment to the one we’re renting. But my eager feet carry me up the metal steps too quickly, and I have to wait on the top landing for her. Maybe I’m not really hiding the giddy nerves over this admittedly silly breakfast-in-bed surprise.

  “Je viens,” Sylvie calls. She’s coming. I glance out the lace curtains and for a second, despite all my affirmations, I forget who and where I am. A silver BMW rolls down the street, a click slower than casual. A steel cord laces around my stomach.

  Watching my back every waking moment has tuned my instincts tighter than a twelve-string. The rational side of my brain can’t put the reasons into words, but something isn’t right.

  No. I shake off the worry and the imaginary wire. Even if something isn’t right, it’s not my business. Not like I’m their target. Today I’m not Talia Reynolds, CIA operations officer. I’m Talia the newlywed, and I won’t preempt someone else’s problem.

  Sylvie reaches the landing and huffs, murmuring something about her knees and the November chill. She sets her tray on the finely carved table by the door, then urges me to go on. “Je vais au marché. As-tu besoin de quelque chose?” I’m going to the market. Do you need anything?

  “Non, merci.” I thank her again for her help and watch her down a couple stairs to make sure she won’t fall. Once I know she’s okay, I switch my heavier tray for the lighter one Sylvie carried, grab the hot chocolate and open the ornate paneled back door to our cozy studio apartment.

  At my entrance, my husband rolls over in bed, and I take a second to soak him in, his dark brown hair just long enough to flip out behind his ears, his loving brown eyes, his amazing smile still fuzzy around the edges from sleep. Danny shoves aside the handmade coverlet and swings his feet over the side of the bed. “There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you’d been abducted.”

  “Not today — don’t get up,” I rush to say. “You’ll ruin it.”

  Danny pauses at the bed’s edge, one eyebrow sneaking up half an inch. “Ruin what?”

  “The surprise.”

  He presses his lips together to hide his amusement, eyeing the f
ood I’m carrying. Okay, yes, it’s not much of a surprise anymore. I cross the few feet to the bed, planting one knee on the off-white bedspread for stability. I’m balancing the carafe of hot chocolate, and I really don’t want to ruin anything in this adorably dainty flat.

  Danny takes the food, beaming. “You made this? For me?”

  “Me and Sylvie. And her freezer.”

  “My compliments to the Kenmore. And the cooks.” He sets the breakfast on his lap and leans forward for a kiss.

  I oblige, but tap his tray before he gets any ideas about putting off breakfast. “Come on; we’ve been working for an hour. It’s your favorite, and it’s getting cold.”

  “Okay.” A laugh lurks in his eyes, but he obeys. I can’t help practically bouncing while I wait for him to take the first bite.

  He crunches into the flaky pastry and pauses to appreciate the warm, buttery layers. “Amazing.”

  I grin.

  “But I thought chocolatine was your favorite.”

  “Pain au chocolate,” I correct him (though I know it’s a dialect difference.) I take the plate and the pastry and settle in to enjoy the gooey chocolate inside the croissant. “Tough luck.”

  Danny shakes his head, still smiling, and pours himself a mug of hot chocolate. Yeah, he knows I’m only teasing. I return the pain au chocolat to the plate and get his breakfast from the table outside the back door. One glance out the landing window shows the silver BMW down the block still.

  Still not my problem. I return with the loaded tray: scrambled eggs with bacon and potatoes, lightly toasted fresh bread with melty Rocamadour cheese, and a croissant like mine, only stuffed with shaved ham and two more kinds of cheese, Emmental and chèvre.

  “Whoa.” Danny sits up straighter to take the heavy tray. “You have been cooking.”

  I take the other tray from his lap and scoot next to him again to enjoy my breakfast of warm semi-solid chocolate and warm liquid chocolate.

  Paris in November might not be heaven, but you can’t get closer than being here with Danny. (My husband — have I mentioned that once or twice? I’ll never get tired of saying it.) Once he’s sampled and praised everything, he wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer. I lean into him, automatically settling into the spot where I just fit.

  “Remind me how you say it in Finnish?” he asks. Either he likes that I speak four languages (almost five, with his help), or he likes that I finally told him the truth about them all. Either way, we’ve been through this enough he doesn’t have to explain what “it” he means.

  “Rakastan sinua,” I tell him. I love you.

  “Rakastan sinua,” he repeats.

  I sit up to look into his eyes. “Ja minä sinuakin, ikuisesti.”

  His eyebrows furrow in a tiny wince. “Did I say it—?”

  “It means ‘And I you, forever.’”

  The worry he’s messed up evaporates with his eye-crinkling, Talia-melting smile. My husband tilts forward to rest his forehead on mine. “Which part is ‘forever’?”

  “Ikuisesti.”

  “Rakastan sinua ikuisesti,” he says.

  “Good.” I give him a quick kiss then a quick tip. “Trill your tongue on the ‘r’ a little more. Three or four taps and you’ll sound like a native.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time we’re in Finland.” He takes a bite of the ham and cheese croissant, chews, swallows, and sighs. “I think you should make breakfast every day.”

  “And I think we should quit our jobs and never go home.” I punctuate my proclamation with a bite of my own buttery, flaky, chocolaty goodness.

  “I wish — but you know when you make these for me at home, they’ll be called chocolatine.”

  “When I make these at home, they’ll be pour moi.“

  Danny glances at me and does a double take. His gaze locks on mine and no amount of food could distract us. He moves in for a long, slow kiss, and for a few moments, he and I are the only things in my universe.

  I’ve never been a giddy, giggly girl — can’t stand them — but I don’t care how silly it is to lose myself so completely in his kiss I can’t tell which way’s right. I’m on my honeymoon; I’ve earned some time to let my guard down, especially with all the stuff Danny and I have endured for my job lately. A spy may not be able to take classified documents out of the office, but sometimes work tails you home.

  We needed this trip for more than a honeymoon.

  Danny finally pulls back with a final peck. “You had some chocolate on your lip.”

  “How embarrassing.” I scoop a fingerful of chocolate from the middle of my croissant and smear it on my bottom lip. Danny’s laughing and leaning in, and I’m doing the same — until a knock sounds at our front door. I freeze and bite the chocolate off my lip, like we’ve been caught.

  “It’s Sylvie,” I whisper. But even without my full voice, the doubt comes through as loud and clear as if I’d said the “right?” at the end.

  “Wouldn’t she use the back way?”

  “She was going to the market. Maybe she’s stopping by on the way out.”

  My husband hasn’t even turned away. “Nah. Must be the wrong apartment. They’ll go away.” His lips touch mine and I’m ready to forget that knock.

  Until it comes again. In the suddenly tense stillness, we lock gazes and exchange a silent conversation. Not going away. We both look, neither of us willing to let go of one another yet.

  He lifts his chin and his voice to address the caller in French. “We don’t need anything today, thanks, Sylvie!”

  Silence follows. With every passing second, my grip on Danny’s T-shirt grows tighter, but neither of us move, not even to breathe.

  That car.

  No. Nobody should be able to track me down. I’ve done my best to curb all my extra paranoid little habits on vacation — no small feat. I’m safe. But someone. Is. Here.

  Could be anyone. Could be nothing.

  “Monsieur Fluker?” calls a man in the hall. So much for the wrong apartment theory. And this dude’s French accent is bad. Almost as bad as this situation feels.

  Danny releases me and I’m the first to ditch my tray and hit my feet. I peek out the window.

  That silver BMW’s parked across the street. I squint at the windshield. I swear I can see a man with binoculars. Pointed at our building.

  My stomach drops and rebounds like I took a speed bump too fast. Now it’s my problem.

  Danny’s out of bed, and before I can dash across the apartment, he reaches the door. He twists the knob, angling the door to shield me from whoever’s in the hallway.

  I’m rubbing off on him. Apparently I’m a bad influence.

  “Quoi?” Danny asks.

  “Votre femme, est-elle ici?” Is your wife here?

  The skin on the back of my neck turns cold.

  If I peek at the man in the hall, he’ll see me, so I watch Danny, willing him not to check my reaction. He leans a shoulder against the door, releasing the knob to wave me away.

  Whoever’s on the other side of this door is bad news. I don’t abandon Danny to bad news. Ever.

  “She went to the market.” Danny switches to English. “Maybe I can help you.”

  “Let’s just see what she thinks about that,” the man replies, like he knows I’m here.

  Happy thought.

  “Okay,” Danny says. “Leave a message, and I’ll give it to her.”

  The man barks out a cynical laugh. I wish I could get a better read on him with any visual, but again if I can see him, he can see me. Danny waves me away, now more insistent.

  He’s a grown man. He’s my husband. He wants to protect me. But I’m his wife — I’m a spy. I should do the protecting. I touch Danny’s hand to let him know I’ll take it from here, but he lets go of the doorknob again and plants his palm in my stomach. Stopping me.

  “I need to talk to her,” Mystery Man says.

  “Like I said, s
he isn’t here. If you don’t want to leave a message, you’ll have to come back later.” Danny gives an apologetic shrug and closes the door. Yeah, that isn’t suspicious.

  “I can handle this,” I insist. (Quietly. If Mystery Man gives up and goes away, I’m not about to cry.)

  Danny takes my elbow and guides me across the room to the back door. He leans close. “Go.”

  “It’s probably nothing.” But my reply would probably be more convincing if I could raise my voice above a whisper.

  He glances back to frown at the front door. I’m not fooling him. He opens the back door to the stairs. “If it’s nothing, then let me find out for you.”

  Mystery Man knocks at the other door again. “Mr. Fluker, you’re not fooling anyone. We know she’s there.”

  We? My pulse accelerates. While I’m distracted, Danny picks the precise moment to push me onto the landing. But I’m not leaving him. I turn back. “Seriously.” I pitch my tone and my eyebrows to convey stern insistence. “Let me do this, Danny.”

  He cuts off my protest with a quick kiss. “I can take care of him. He’s old. And fat. I’ve made it through worse.”

  Before I can argue again, he closes the stairwell door — and locks it. I try the knob, but yeah. Locked.

  Fine. I can go around. On the wrought-iron spiral staircase, I roll my feet to hide my hurried escape, barely pausing to knock before heading into Sylvie’s perfectly appointed apartment. “Sylvie? J’ai oublié . . .”

  My lie bounces off the creamy paneled walls and the parquet floor. No Sylvie. Wonderful. I start for the door out of her apartment, but I’m not even past the elegant dining table when Sylvie trots out from the bedroom, perching her perfect little hat on her perfectly coiffed, perfectly white hair. She’s wearing gloves. Gloves. This apartment’s still in 1964.