A Secret Life

by Laura Peyton Roberts

  Then, with one last look back at Noah, she stole silently out of the room.

  On the pavement outside her hotel, Sydney took a deep breath of the early-morning air, feeling it tingle through her body. In the quiet half-light of dawn, Paris seemed to belong just to her, and she was ready to run out and greet it. Turning left on impulse, she began jogging up the street.

  Avenue Montaigne turned out to be a treasure. Right there, in just a few blocks, some of the most famous fashion houses in the world rubbed stony shoulders with Sydney's hotel. She kept a tally as she ran, going up one side of the street, then down the other: Christian Dior, Nina Ricci, Chanel, and—barely a block past the Plaza Athénée in the other direction—the darkened Théâtre des Champs-Élysées.

  She wished she could attend a play in Paris or, better still, see an opera. Maybe, if they had time, she could talk Noah into going. If SD-6 had outfitted him as thoroughly as they had her, he couldn't pretend he had nothing to wear.

  Making a left toward the river, Sydney visualized Noah in a tuxedo. He would look handsome, she decided. Sophisticated. Her feet hit the pavement, step after step, but her mind was far away.

  I wonder if he's interested in me at all, she mused as she turned left again and began running along the Seine. Or if he ever could be.

  Was the fact that they were in Paris together just a coincidence?

  Or was it fate?

  She was about a kilometer from the hotel when she came to a bridge and had to make a decision: Go right, over the Seine, or turn left and stay closer to home? Stopping to pull the map from her pocket, she took a moment to figure out where she was. The bridge she was standing next to was called the Pont des Invalides. As tempting as it was to run over the Seine, there were a couple of big palaces on her route if she turned left. She decided to check out the palaces. Then, all of a sudden, she noticed something else: In the spokelike network of streets between her and the Plaza Athénée, someone had drawn a small blue dot and neatly printed ML.

  Monique Larousse, she thought with a rush of excitement. That's got to be it!

  She had known they were staying close to the couture house, but she hadn't realized how close. I could run over there and check things out before Noah even gets up.

  She liked the idea of doing a little reconnaissance on her own, just to get a feel for the place. The couture house wouldn't be open yet, but she didn't plan to go in anyway—she just wanted to see what the outside of the building looked like. Maybe she'd notice something that would prove useful later.

  Making a diagonal left away from the river, Sydney ran briskly through the quiet neighborhood, looking for her target. Moments later, she spotted it up ahead.

  Monique Larousse was not quite as upscale as some of the other couture houses, but it was doing well enough to occupy a three-story building in a long row of attached structures. The storefront was painted beige, its ground floor dominated by large display windows emblazoned with the initials ML entwined in gold script. The windows were sheltered by dark green awnings, their color repeated in the painted wood trim.

  Sydney jogged past slowly, trying to catch a peek through the darkened windows before crossing the street and jogging back in the other direction. The sun was just beginning to come up, washing the street in a rosy glow. Everything seemed peaceful. Nothing about the building looked the least bit suspicious.

  Which is the look I'd be going for too, if I were breaking the law, Sydney thought, determined to learn something. Running to the street corner, she discovered a narrow alley extending behind the fashion house, separating its row of buildings from a similar row facing the next street. She turned and began trotting up the alley, still searching for any clue.

  Dumpsters were spaced out along its length, and one was located directly across the pavement from the back of Monique Larousse. Behind the Dumpster, the bushy, overgrown ground rose at an incline until it encountered the back walls of the buildings in the next row.

  Sydney jogged past the rear of the fashion house, imagining emergency scenarios. The Dumpster and bushes afforded some cover, but not much. The back of Monique Larousse was beige and nondescript, with a steel door at the bottom of an exterior staircase that descended to basement level. Sydney had just slowed her steps, trying to memorize everything, when all of a sudden she heard a car engine coming toward her down the alley. The motor seemed loud in that echoing space; the vehicle was moving quickly. Acting on instinct, she ran the few steps to the Dumpster and ducked behind it, planning to hide until the vehicle went past.

  Except that it didn't. A decrepit black van stopped just feet away and two men hopped out onto the pavement.

  Sydney watched them from her cover, careful not to make a sound and alert them to her presence. Barely breathing, she spied as one of the men opened the double doors at the back of the van, unloaded a long parcel wrapped in black plastic, and carried it down the stairs to the basement door. She was dying to know what was in the package, but there was no way to sneak past the huge second man, who had lit a cigarette and was now smoking it near the van's driver-side door. He wore a gray beret pulled forward on his otherwise bald head, and his shoulders were so broad that even the unhealthy gut straining his shirt buttons didn't make him look less formidable.

  A minute later, the first man reappeared. The driver flicked his cigarette onto the pavement and the duo climbed into their van and drove away. Sydney crept cautiously out of hiding, wondering what it all meant.

  It doesn't have to mean anything, she reminded herself, trying to look casual as she strolled toward the basement stairs. A place like this probably gets lots of deliveries.

  But at sunrise? Besides, the men must have had their own key, since nothing was leaning against the basement door now.

  I'll tell Noah what I saw, in case it's important, she decided, beginning to run back toward the hotel. If nothing else, he ought to be impressed by my initiative!

  “You did what?” Noah demanded, furious. “I know I couldn't have heard you right the first time.”

  “I just thought . . . ,” Sydney offered lamely. “I mean, since I was there . . .”

  “Do I have to remind you who's in charge of this mission?” The sweet, sleepy look of that morning had vanished, replaced by one of pure belligerence. “Are you crazy?”

  “I only wanted to help,” she protested, wishing she'd kept running instead of returning to the suite. She had been so eager to tell Noah what she'd seen. Obviously that had been a mistake.

  “I will not have you freelancing on my assignment!” he said, punching the back of the sofa for emphasis. “Did you ever stop to think that there might be security cameras on that building? You may have already blown our cover!”

  “No way!” she said quickly. “If anyone saw me, I just looked like a jogger.”

  “A jogger who hides behind Dumpsters,” he said derisively.

  Sydney pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. She could feel her eyes filling with tears, and if even one escaped, she was going to feel more stupid than she already did. She shifted back and forth in her jogging shoes, pulling her jacket tightly around her and wishing she were anywhere else.

  “I see your point,” she admitted. “But even if someone saw that, it doesn't prove I'm not some clothes-crazy American tourist, spying on my favorite designer. Or maybe I'm just afraid of running into someone alone in an alley. A lot of women are.”

  Noah gave her a disgusted look. “You shouldn't even talk to me right now. Go take a shower or something.”

  She hesitated, torn. The way Noah was behaving made her want to get as far from him as possible. But how could she leave things like this between them?

  “I'm sorry if I made a mistake,” she said, trying to hold his angry stare and finding it impossible. “I'm trying my best, but I'm still a trainee.”

  “You don't have to tell me that,” he retorted. “Believe me, it's incredibly obvious.”

  Sydney nodded miserably, the aching lump
in her throat like a fist squeezing off her voice. Without another word, she turned and ran for her bathroom, slamming two doors behind her.

  Stripping off her running clothes, she lurched into the shower and turned on the pressure full blast. The hot, cleansing water poured down on her head, but it couldn't wash away Noah's harsh words. Her tears broke like a storm, shaking her whole body.

  Everyone else at SD-6 always told her how great she was doing, and she had believed them. Except for that immersion tank fiasco, she had received top marks in every training session. But training was training, and this mission with Noah was the real thing.

  What if she couldn't cut it?

  Wilson only picked me for this because I can wear the clothes, she told herself. Maybe that was all she had to offer. Maybe no one even expected her to do more.

  No one except Noah.

  He was so mean! she thought, a new set of sobs convulsing her. Why did he have to be so nasty?

  Instead of sneering at her for being a trainee, shouldn't he be cutting her some slack? He must have been a trainee himself once—although maybe he liked to forget that.

  He's a self-righteous jerk, she decided resentfully. I don't know why I ever liked him in the first place.

  One thing was certain: She didn't like him anymore.

  He had yelled at her, embarrassed her, made her cry, and—worst of all—made her doubt herself.

  Noah Hicks isn't so crushworthy after all.

  “There you are!” Noah said cheerfully when Sydney finally reentered the living room.

  She had taken her time in the bathroom, drying her hair, putting on makeup, and trying on every one of the outfits SD-6 had sent with her. She'd checked them all in the full-length mirror before deciding on a dress to wear later that morning to her appointment at Monique Larousse. She'd selected a layered auburn wig as well—just in case she had shown up on a security camera.

  Back in control of her emotions at last, and unable to delay any longer, Sydney had thrown on some jeans and reluctantly emerged to face Noah. Now she viewed him with studied coolness, a slight shrug her only reply.

  “I ordered us some breakfast,” he said, gesturing to a room-service cart by the window. Crystal, silver, cut flowers, and white linen made the meal look extra special, and the number of dishes, both covered and uncovered, indicated the extent to which he had over-ordered. “I, uh, I didn't know what you'd want, so I just got everything.”

  “Why not?” she said sullenly. “It isn't your money.”

  To her surprise, he winced. Hurrying over to pull out a chair, he motioned her toward it hopefully.

  “Look. I might have overreacted earlier,” he said. “I mean, not about what you did. But I could have explained it nicer. I'm sorry I lost my temper.”

  “Don't worry about it.”

  The last thing she had expected was an apology, and it was amazing how little it helped. Raising her chin a notch, Sydney took the chair he offered—not because she forgave him, but because no matter how she felt, Noah was still in charge of the mission.

  He dropped into the seat opposite her. “You have to try these croissants,” he said eagerly, passing her a plate. “I had one yesterday, and they practically melt in your mouth.”

  Sydney put a croissant on her plate, merely following orders. Noah beamed. It was harder to stay mad when he smiled like that, but she was completely determined.

  “Anything else I need to know before we leave for Monique Larousse?” she asked, using the twin excuses of butter and jam to avoid looking at his face.

  “There's some technical stuff, some gear to go over. But we've got plenty of time. Try the coffee—it's fantastic.”

  He reached across the table to fill her cup himself, swearing when he sloshed some over the rim into her saucer.

  “Oops,” he added sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  Sydney pressed her lips together—this time to keep from smiling. It was of absolutely no importance that they were having the most romantic breakfast ever, in full view of the Eiffel Tower. Or that Noah was clearly anxious to smooth things over. Or even that he appeared to be genuinely sorry. She saw through his boyish charm routine. She wouldn't let him under her skin a second time. At least, not any farther under.

  “What kind of gear?” she asked.

  “Bugs, cameras, an earpiece to go with that necklace transmitter. The usual. You've probably seen it all before.”

  “I probably have,” she agreed. “I may be a trainee, but I'm not untrained.”

  Noah gestured to the cart. “Have some eggs.”

  Breakfast progressed as awkwardly as it had begun. Sydney helped herself to some of every- thing, determined to be at peak strength for their mission. Noah made sporadic attempts at conversation, most of which she quashed with one reply.

  Eventually he fell silent, leaving her to battle a growing sense that she was behaving worse than he had. Even so, she refused to give in. All her life, she'd been vulnerable. She hated it—the sick, sneaking suspicion that any second someone would pull security out from under her like a magician's tablecloth. Whether or not he realized it, that was exactly what Noah had done.

  “I'm full,” she announced at last, pushing away from the table. “When are we leaving?”

  Noah checked his watch. “Not for another two hours. I hired a limo to drive us there—it might look strange if we walk.”

  “I'll take my time getting dressed, then. If I meet you out here in an hour, does that give us time to go over the gear?”

  “Plenty of time.”

  “All right. See you then.”

  She started to head for the bedroom, but Noah stood up abruptly, blocking her way.

  “Sydney . . . are we okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you and I. We have to work together here. And we didn't get off to a very good start.”

  “We're fine.”

  His eyes searched hers. “You seem upset.”

  “I'm not. Why should I be?”

  “You shouldn't.” He touched her wrist uncertainly, the warmth of his hand shooting straight to her heart. “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “You probably think I was too hard on you.” He shrugged. “Maybe I was. But you're not the only one with something to prove on this mission. I'm in charge, you understand? If we fail, I have more to lose than you do.”

  “You're in charge. I understand perfectly.”

  He seemed unconvinced. “So we're okay?” he asked at last.

  “I said we were.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  She forced a smile. “I'm not a child.”

  But the words she spoke didn't match the decision she'd come to: I'll follow his instructions to the letter. I'll do my job like a pro. And then, if I'm lucky, I'll never see Noah Hicks again.

  A guy like Noah could break a girl's heart.

  5

  THE LIMOUSINE PULLED TO the curb in front of Monique Larousse, Sydney and Noah sequestered in back. Sydney had thought it ridiculous to hire a car for such a short distance, but with the heels she was wearing, she had to admit it was easier than walking. Besides, Noah had ordered the limo, and she wasn't about to second-guess him out loud.

  The driver turned off the engine and hurried around to help Sydney out. She gave him her hand, painfully aware of the shortness of her skirt as she attempted to exit the car gracefully. Keeping her knees together, balancing on the chauffeur's gloved hand, she finally managed to get one spiked heel on the curb and leverage her weight up over it—not an easy trick.

  They spend so much time on weapons training at SD-6, she thought, embarrassed. They ought to have a class on high heels.

  Because, unlike earlier that morning, the street was alive with people. Locals and tourists both cruised the storefronts, browsing for bargains or simply window-shopping. And, unless Sydney was mistaken, a disproportionate number of them were suddenly staring at her.

  It's probably the limo, she thought self
consciously.

  But as Noah walked around the car to join her, Sydney caught her reflection in Monique Larousse's plate glass windows. She had seen herself in the mirror back at the hotel, but at the time she'd been so consumed by details that she hadn't really seen. She had checked to make sure her wig was straight, her lipstick even, and her bra straps covered by her sleeveless blue silk sheath, but all of a sudden, out here on the street, she barely recognized herself. Her three-inch heels and short dress made her legs seem impossibly long, the layered russet wig was straight from Charlie's Angels, and most shocking of all was the haughty look on her well-made-up face.

  Who was that rich snob? No wonder people were staring.

  Noah told the driver to wait. Then he turned to Sydney. “Are you ready to do this?” he asked.

  “Let's go,” she said tensely.

  She watched her reflection stride toward the green door as if she were watching a stranger. Where had that walk—no, that strut—come from? Was it only her lingering annoyance with Noah putting that attitude into her step? Or had she tapped into something deeper, something she hadn't even known she possessed?

  The door to the couture house opened abruptly, an older man inside falling all over himself in his haste to welcome her.

  “Bonjour! Bonjour, madame,” he said, bowing as he waved her inside. “Bienvenue à Monique Larousse.”

  “Why, thank you. Aren't you sweet?”

  Her voice didn't sound normal either, but the look in the man's eyes was pure admiration. Something clicked in Sydney's brain: Whatever Noah thought, Wilson had been right to choose her. Her confidence came flooding back, along with renewed excitement at embarking on her first mission. She'd show Noah a thing or two.

  “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright,” the man said, switching to English.

  “Call me Nick.” Noah slung a possessive arm across Sydney's shoulders. “We've come to buy the better half here a new wardrobe.”

  “Of course, of course. Please come in. May I offer you a glass of champagne?”