“Merci,” she told the driver, adding a generous tip. “Au revoir.”
The man winked at her as he climbed back into his cab. “Have a good time,” he said, driving off.
“He spoke English!” Sydney groaned, realizing too late that he'd been having fun with her. It killed her to think of the information she'd missed on her drive into the city. Maybe, if she'd asked him to speak English . . .
From now on, ‘Do you speak English?' is the first sentence I learn in every language, she resolved. And the sooner, the better.
At the hotel entrance, the doorman was still holding the door open for her. Shaking off her disappointment, Sydney walked beneath the clamshell and into the glass entryway.
The interior of the Plaza Athénée was even more luxurious than the exterior had promised. Sydney caught her breath as she entered the beautiful lobby, feeling like Cinderella at the ball. Surely she couldn't be staying here? Wilson hadn't lied when he called the place swanky, but the hotel's glamour went deeper than that. Its very walls seemed to whisper of tradition, and Paris, and haute couture. For a moment she hesitated, feeling like an intruder. Then she threw her head back, adjusted her Chanel sweater, and strode up to the reception desk.
“Hello,” she greeted the desk clerk, surprised to hear the slightly imperious tone in her voice. “I have a reservation. Carrie Wainwright.”
“Oh, Mrs. Wainwright!” the man responded. “Welcome to Plaza Athénée. I will have the boy show you up to your suite.”
Sydney gave the clerk a gracious smile and followed the bellhop, but her mind and heart were both racing as she entered the elevator.
Did that guy just call me Mrs. Wainwright?
If Carrie Wainwright was supposed to be married, Wilson might have mentioned it. On the other hand, French was clearly the clerk's first language. He had probably simply misspoken.
That's it, Sydney thought, relieved.Of course.
Her heels sank into the carpeting as she exited the elevator and followed the bellhop down a hall, her steps weaving a bit with exhaustion. The twelve-hour flight, nine-hour time change, and complete lack of sleep were beginning to take their toll, and the caffeine and excitement that had kept her awake to that point had suddenly evaporated, leaving her jittery and strung out.
“Voilà.” The bellhop stopped in front of a door. Then, to Sydney's surprise, he knocked.
Who does he think is going to let us in?
Her question was answered a second later when a man threw the door open wide.
“Hello, darling!” he said, stepping into the hall to kiss her on both cheeks. “Did you have a nice flight?”
Sydney absorbed his wavy brown hair and intense brown eyes in a state of total shock. “It's you!”
“Of course it's me. Who did you expect? Your other husband?” he teased, laughing for the sake of the bellhop.
Handing the bellhop a tip, he hustled Sydney into the room and closed the door behind them. He turned to her expectantly, but all she could do was stare.
“You're surprised,” he said at last.
Surprised? Yeah, that scratches the surface.
Her new partner was Noah Hicks.
3
“I HAD THEM BRING up some fruit and sandwiches,” Noah said as Sydney wandered past him into the living room. A silver-domed tray waited on the Louis XV coffee table in front of a velvet sofa. “I thought you might be hungry when you got here.”
“Maybe later,” Sydney said distractedly. Ignoring the food, she made her way to a large, arch-shaped window, pulled aside the long, silky drapes, and looked out over a view that took her breath away. “We can see the Eiffel Tower!”
“Nice, huh?” Noah moved to stand behind her. “We've got the same view from the balcony.”
“And this room!” she continued. “Can you even believe this room?”
The walls were painted a warm butter yellow and were hung with original oil paintings. The furniture was eighteenth century, dark wood with gold accents and rich fabrics in blended shades of red, amber, and rose. Silk pillows, patterned carpets, and antique lamps that made Sydney swoon added to the uniquely Parisian ambiance.
“It's not a room, it's a suite,” he replied. “Two bathrooms, and wait until you see the marble bathtub. You can have that one.”
His offer brought her back to reality.
“Wait. We're sharing this room?”
“Suite,” Noah corrected. “And I'll sleep on the couch, so don't get the wrong idea. Why don't you sit down and let me explain everything.”
Sydney willingly took a plush chair, eager to learn more about her mission.
“As you already discovered,” he said, “we're posing as husband and wife. To maintain that cover, we need to be in the same suite, but this is strictly business. You'll have the bedroom, and that door shuts. You don't need to worry about anything unprofessional happening.”
Sydney nodded. “Good to know.”
At the same time, though, she couldn't help thinking she wouldn't mind if something a little unprofessional happened. If, say, the future of our country depended on Noah's kissing me, I could probably endure it.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Huh? No!”
“You have a funny look on your face. Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine.”
“It's a long flight. You're probably hungry. Why don't you have a sandwich?”
He seemed so genuinely concerned that she took a crustless triangle from beneath the silver cover. She had already known that Noah Hicks was magnetic, confident, and good at his job; this unexpectedly sweet side only made her like him more.
“You were telling me about our mission,” she reminded him between bites.
“Right. Well, if you aren't familiar with Paris, you may not have realized that we're dead at the heart of the fashion district here. SD-6 has intel that one of the newer couture houses, Monique Larousse, may be laundering money for K-Directorate. The house's profits are out of line with sales, and last week a known K-Directorate agent, a nasty piece of work called Alek Anatolii, was seen entering but not leaving.”
“What happened to him?” Sydney asked, moving to the edge of her seat. “You don't think . . . you don't think they killed him?”
Noah chuckled. “We should be so lucky.”
Her expression must have betrayed her shock.
“I'm kidding!” he said quickly. “I mean, sort of. Okay . . . if it wouldn't break my heart, does that make me a bad guy?”
“I'm just surprised to hear you put it like that.”
“If you'd met Anatolii, you'd be less surprised. Let's hope he stays missing.”
The grim set of Noah's lips made Sydney silently agree.
“In the meantime,” Noah continued, “you and I are going to be stepping up the recon on that fashion house, Monique Larousse. So far SD-6 has been surveilling it remotely. Now we need to get inside—and that's where you come in.”
“What do you want me to do, Noah?” she asked, totally engrossed.
“For starters, call me Nick. Nick Wainwright. I've been putting it around that I'm a dot-com millionaire from California. And you're Carrie, my spoiled trophy wife.”
“Nice,” she said sarcastically.
“It's only a cover. Besides, there are worse things than being the wife of a millionaire. Didn't I just fly you out to Paris to buy you a whole new wardrobe?”
“Do I get to keep the clothes?”
He smiled at how fast she saw through him. “Unlikely. But tomorrow morning we have an appointment at Monique Larousse anyway. They'll show you their designs and fit you—and the more time it takes, the better. We're really there to case the place, and plant as many bugs and cameras as we can. Most of that's going to fall on you, since you'll have better access. I'll be waiting wherever the bored husbands sit, in case you need some backup.”
“Backup?” she repeated apprehensively. “What kind of backup do you think I'll need?”
&n
bsp; “Probably none. I've never seen anyone less suspicious-looking than you. Add that to how young you are and this is going to be a slam dunk. Straight recon, no problems.”
She smiled, although she could have done without the reference to her age. The fact that she was younger than Noah was something she'd rather he forgot.
“So I'm actually going to be trying on clothes?”
“Definitely. Make them bring you everything they have. Then you want to see what you're wearing in a different mirror, you want to see it in different light, you want to use the bathroom, you want to see where they sew the clothes, you want to know what's in that cute little room around the corner. . . . Are you getting my drift?”
“I'm taking a tour of the building, whether they want me to or not.”
“That's my girl,” Noah said, with a conspiratorial wink. Standing up, he retrieved a black canvas bag from the floor near the sofa. “I have something for you.”
Removing a jewelry box, he flipped it open, revealing an absurdly expensive necklace on a bedding of midnight blue velvet. A network of diamonds dripped from fine platinum chains, their irregular sizes and heights like a snippet of starry sky.
“For me?” Sydney gasped, overwhelmed. She and Noah barely knew each other, and this . . . Her heart was racing so fast she could barely breathe.
“Like it?” he asked with a devastating grin. “Here, let me.”
He already had the clasp open. Before Sydney could form a thought, he was leaning over her chair, reaching the ends of the chain around her neck.
“You might want to move your hair,” he said.
Obediently, Sydney gathered her loose long hair away from her neck. The way Noah was bending over her, her face was half buried in his shirt. She could smell the soap he'd used radiating from his warm skin. . . .
“Perfect!” he declared, stepping back. “That's the best-looking transmitter I've ever seen.”
“Transmitter?” Sydney repeated weakly.
“Our guy Graham's a genius. A little silver, a little cubic zirconia, and there you go. Looks real, doesn't it?”
“Um, yeah.” The necklace was only spy gear.
Which of course I knew, Sydney told herself quickly. Duh!
“Graham's the best,” Noah continued obliviously. “If I hadn't seen you before, for instance, I would never guess that this mole's fake.”
In one quick motion, he peeled it off like an old Band-Aid.
“Hey, Wilson put that there!” she protested, trying to grab his hand. “It's a tracer.”
“I know what it is. And you don't need it anymore. Wilson knows you're here now, and as long as you are, you answer to me. The last thing we need is someone else picking up your signal and tracking our every move.”
“Oh.” She hadn't thought of that.
“I'll go flush it.” Noah started to leave the room, then turned back. “Do you want something else to eat? Because you can always call room service. Have them send up hot fudge sundaes and caviar, or whatever gives you a thrill. The more we spend, the better we look.”
Sydney managed to smile, but the long trip had finally caught up with her. “I wouldn't mind if they brought up some aspirin.”
Returning quickly to his black bag, Noah tossed her a plastic bottle. “Headache, huh?” he sympathized. “I'm not surprised. Did you sleep on the plane?”
“Not really.”
“I never do, either. Sleeping in public . . . not the safest idea in our line of work.”
“Right.” Another thing she hadn't thought of.
“If you're not hungry, why not go to bed?” he suggested. “It wouldn't hurt to rest up for tomorrow. The bedroom's all yours—just unpack and make yourself comfortable.”
“I don't need to go to bed,” Sydney protested. It wasn't even dinnertime yet, and still quite light outside. “I'll just take a couple of aspirin, and maybe lie down for a few minutes. I guess I'm kind of jet-lagged.”
“Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.” Noah held up her fake mole. “Except off to flush. Let Wilson track the sewers awhile,” he added with a grin.
“He wouldn't really—” she began anxiously.
“Not for more than five minutes. Will you relax? I'm running things now.”
Sydney watched him disappear, then got up and dragged her rolling suitcase into the hotel bedroom, closing the door behind her. The case seemed heavier now than it had in L.A., the locking catch almost too complicated for her fumbling fingers. She got it unlatched at last, and began hanging up her expensive new dresses to avoid any further wrinkles. What didn't need hanging got left on the floor, the idea of tackling a strange dresser suddenly too overwhelming.
I'll do it later, she thought, falling across the sumptuous bed. The upholstery and linens in the bedroom were as rich as in the rest of the suite, but Sydney was too exhausted to notice. Even the cut orchids on her nightstand barely registered. My poor pounding head! What did I do with those aspirin?
She knew she should get up to look, but her body seemed to have already melded to the mattress. Besides, what she really wanted to do was call Francie. Her new cell phone still bulged in her sweater pocket. Wrestling it out, Sydney flipped the instrument open and contemplated its black buttons.
There has to be some sort of generic version of all this that's okay to tell her, she thought. She hated keeping her friend in the dark, especially when she was so used to sharing every little detail. She wanted to tell Francie about SD-6, and Wilson, and Paris, and the real reason she took off running every time her “bank” pager beeped. Most of all, she wanted to tell her about Noah.
Maybe I can just say there's a coworker on this business trip who's kind of cute. That seems normal enough. Non-CIA people get crushes. Except . . . what time is it in L.A.?
In Sydney's jet-lagged state, the simple math required to figure out the time difference seemed nearly impossible. She decided to try anyway.
If the flight from Los Angeles to Paris takes twelve hours, and Paris clocks are nine hours ahead . . . No, wait. It doesn't matter how long the flight takes. I just have to subtract nine from whatever time it is now. Except that it's only three or four o'clock here, and that makes a negative number. Wait, I've got it. First I have to add twelve to get military time. And then I have to subtract . . .
She fell asleep still clutching the phone.
4
SYDNEY AWOKE WITH A start. The room was dark, and for a moment she didn't know where she was. Then she remembered and sat up abruptly.
A soft hotel blanket fell away from her chest, pooling at her waist. Her legs were still covered, but she could feel that her feet were bare. Someone had come in while she was asleep to take off her shoes and cover her up.
There was only one person that someone could be.
How embarrassing! she thought. And a moment later: How sweet!
The fact that Noah had been able to get that close without waking her didn't make her look like much of a spy. But the fact that he'd wanted to . . . What did that mean?
Swinging her bare feet down to the plush carpeting, Sydney rose and switched on a lamp. A previously unnoticed clock by the bedside indicated that it was 6:04 A.M. She had slept through the whole night.
Great.
She imagined Noah hanging around the evening before, waiting to see if she'd wake up for dinner. I hope I wasn't snoring when he came to check on me!
She paced her room, wondering what to do now. There was no sound coming from outside her door. Noah was probably asleep on the couch, and she didn't want to wake him. Now that she was up, though, her excitement at being in Paris had come rushing back full flood. Going back to bed was not an option; she could barely even stand still.
I'll go for a run, she decided. A jog through the Paris streets would let her see more of the city, and the cold dawn air would be perfect for clearing the remaining cobwebs from her head.
Taking a T-shirt and designer tracksuit from her open suitcase, Sydney dressed quickly. SD-6 ha
d thought of everything, right down to running shoes and the fancy chronometer she strapped to her wrist. Grabbing a fabric bag of toiletries, Sydney went into the adjoining bathroom to brush her teeth and hair, creating a high ponytail. She opened her bedroom door slowly, to make sure there were no squeaky hinges, and slipped silently into the living room.
On the sofa, Noah was wrapped haphazardly in a blanket, his face dimly lit by the predawn light coming through a crack between the curtains. He looked so cute and helpless—younger than when awake, despite his stubbly cheeks—that Sydney stopped to stare in wonder. She never would have imagined that Noah could look so completely peaceful.
For a moment, she considered touching him, just to prove that she could sneak up on him too. Her hand stretched out and hovered an inch from his thick brown hair. She could almost feel her fingers buried there, stroking the stray strands away from his warm forehead. . . .
What would he do if he woke up? she wondered. She imagined him smiling, happy to see her. Then she imagined him breaking her forearm in one swift motion, her bones snapping like dry twigs before he was fully awake.
Given his training, the second possibility seemed more likely. But even if he didn't hurt her, there was no good reason to assume he'd enjoy waking up to find her fingers in his hair. What if things got awkward because he didn't understand why she'd touched him?
What if they got awkward because he did?
Sydney lowered her hand and stepped away, more afraid of revealing her budding feelings than of having her arm broken. She could say it was all a game, that she was only getting him back for sneaking up on her, but then she'd sound like a child. She could never tell the truth and admit that she'd been longing to touch him since the moment they met . . . because what if he didn't feel the same way?
If there's going to be anything between us, he's going to have to start it, she decided reluctantly. I just can't hang myself out on that limb.
Tiptoeing to a table beside the door, Sydney found two hotel key cards and some touristy maps of Paris. She took a key and slipped the smallest folding map into her pocket.
A Secret Life Page 3
