True Deceptions (True Lies)

by Veronica Forand

  He stood up and stretched to his full six feet, five inches. In two steps he stood over her. Her earrings sparkled the same color as her eyes. Aquamarines. He leaned forward and rested his hands on the back of the couch, one on each side of her shoulders. She tried to pull back, but the couch kept her blocked in. His nose stopped an inch from hers.

  “If you insist on staying here, you are under my control at all times. You do as I say, go where I tell you to go, and never talk to headquarters without my permission. Screw with me once, and I’ll throw you and all your pretty things onto the sidewalk, embedded or not.” Obedience and perseverance were the two most useful skills a new agent could possess, especially when lacking competence.

  She nodded and held her glass almost steady. “I understand. I’ve trained for months for this. I’m ready.”

  Her gaze focused on his chin. Neophyte. She’d never convince anyone they were lovers. Her training must have consisted of watching James Bond movies and playing Risk, the game of world domination.

  “How many assignments have you worked on?”

  “Including this one?”

  “Sure.”

  “One.”

  “You have a lot of catching up to do.” He could smell merlot on her breath. So damn tempting, but thoughts of Anna Marie and her final kiss stopped him cold.

  “I learn fast.” She lifted her glass to take another sip, forcing him to pull his face away from hers. “Do you have our assignment?”

  Even if he knew, he wouldn’t tell her until she’d earned his trust. “I have no idea. I’ll be told within the week. Can you stay out of my way until I learn why you’re here?”

  “Absolutely.” She placed her hand on his chest to push him back. “I guess I’ll be going to bed now.”

  He didn’t move. He hadn’t thought this far. “There’s only one bed, and I don’t sleep on the couch. Ever.”

  “Fine. I’ll sleep on the couch.” Her eyes became shiny, and she swallowed hard, making him feel like a callous idiot.

  But he couldn’t back down. She’d think he cared. He didn’t.

  “Fine.” Pushing away from her, he stormed out of the room.

  Oh. My. God.

  Cassie exhaled all the stress she’d hidden from her new superior. Or maybe not actually hidden. If he was as good as everyone had told her, he’d have seen how scared she was. After three years as a technology specialist, she received an order to do field work. They insisted her skills were necessary for the success of the assignment. Although she didn’t want to leave her post, the request came with an ultimatum. Take it or find a new job. She couldn’t blow it, no matter how hostile Simon had turned out to be. The sooner she finished, the faster she could return to the work she loved. She hoped.

  Retrieving her weapon from under the coffee table, she placed it on the couch and stared at the black finish. The gun still had the safety on, to prevent her from accidentally shooting someone. Guns killed. They shouldn’t be issued to people who refused, for ethical reasons, to eat animal products.

  She rubbed behind her ears, trying to ease the sore spots. Simon had pulled her hair hard, but what choice did he have with someone threatening his life? If only headquarters had told her he’d be arriving so soon. On the other hand, he could have simply turned around and seen she wasn’t a real threat.

  She wasn’t a threat to anyone. She hadn’t even argued when they’d reassigned her. After months of intense training, she still hesitated to shoot at inanimate objects and had never developed the calm, cool demeanor necessary for undercover work. She acted like a spacey schoolgirl from Southern California. No wonder he’d shown her no respect. Secret agent stuff didn’t appeal to her. She much preferred working at headquarters over this grungy apartment.

  Her ineptness became clear when she’d failed the firearms training and barely made it through one-on-one combat. Her only skills aside from computer science were her ability to memorize a hundred different faces shown to her in random order and her speed through the obstacle course. Not exactly skills Simon seemed to care about.

  Several times in the training process, she’d argued with her superiors about her lack of ability. They’d disagreed, insisting she’d be an asset in the field. By the time she’d entered her third month of training, they refused her request to go back to her old job until she successfully completed her mystery task. She could accept her new position or leave the service. It was like they’d removed her from her job permanently. She wasn’t even allowed to speak to her old colleagues in her department.

  Instead of dwelling on the negatives of the situation, she needed to get practical. Her suitcase with her pajamas and toothbrush sat on the floor in the bedroom. His bedroom.

  She got up and went to the bedroom, then opened the door and tiptoed into the dark room. The light from the hall illuminated a path from the door to the center of the bed. Simon was stretched out atop it, wearing boxer shorts and nothing else. His jeans and T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor. He watched her in silence, hands resting behind his head.

  If the devil came to tempt her, he’d arrive in the form of Simon Dunn.

  She’d seen hundreds of hot guys while surfing the beaches in Southern California. Simon, however, was not only graced with abs of steel, arms of well-defined muscle, and a handsome face, his body appeared molded by Roman gods for purely hedonistic activities. His expression conveyed a bored resignation with life. His tightly cropped hair gave him a military appearance, and his eyes were the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, even bluer than her own.

  “Are you standing in my room for any particular reason, or simply sightseeing?” His deep voice caused her insides to vibrate as though standing near a subwoofer.

  “Suitcase. I need my suitcase.” She turned away from him and grabbed it. “I’ll leave it in the hall closet.”

  “Fine.”

  She paused at the door, waiting for him to say “good night,” “nice to meet you,” or even “I hate your presence in my flat.”

  “Cassie?”

  She turned around and smiled. “Yes?”

  “Shut the door when you leave.” He rolled onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head.

  “Sure thing, boss.” She waved at his back then closed the door and sighed.

  This was so far over her comfort zone. Like sky diving was to a person who preferred strolling through a park at dawn.

  She wouldn’t make it one week with him. She’d gladly work with someone less scary. No, scary wasn’t the word to use for Simon. Overwhelming. He overwhelmed all of her senses and made her feel naked and vulnerable.

  She moved into the bathroom and remained staring at the wall until her heart slowed to a steadier beat. Stripping off her jeans and shirt, she jumped into the shower and let the hot water ease her stress. Washing her hair with orange blossom shampoo and feeling the lather slide down her body placed her close to nirvana. She turned the water off and tried to be positive. She’d survive as she’d survived the death of her mother—one day at a time.

  Her arm stretched across the room for her towel at the same moment the door opened. Simon stared directly at her uncovered chest and then moved his glance down her body. The only part hidden was her backside.

  What the…

  She flung the towel around her and stepped over the edge of the tub. Heat covered her face like a crimson veil.

  “Hey,” she hollered. “The door was locked.”

  He leaned against the wall, looking almost bored. “I’m locked out of nothing here. Do you understand?”

  The calming effect of the shower disappeared. All of her fears and insecurities emerged. They’d said the assignment would push her boundaries, but she’d never thought the mission through. This wasn’t a challenge. This was hell on Earth.

  “I have no bed, my previous existence has been erased, I’m assigned to the devil, and now I have zero privacy? Wrong.” Her voice lifted to an octave below a screech. She stepped toward him and poked him in the ches
t. He didn’t move. “I will have privacy. Unless you are stopping terrorists bent on killing me in the shower, you will never, and I mean never, enter this bathroom while I’m inside.” She thought about poking him again, but she hated violence and would already be berating herself all night over her outburst.

  Simon smiled. A dimple emerged on his cheek and laugh lines appeared around his eyes, the kind that only formed after decades of happiness. It was so unexpected, it frightened her.

  “Glad to see you have your limits. You appeared too timid to survive in the field. I refuse to work with someone like that. Too much fear will make you do inept things, causing one or both of our deaths. Goodnight.” His gaze drifted across her bared body parts before he turned and left the room.

  Chapter Three

  Simon never woke up because he’d never fallen asleep. He spent his night staring at walls and trying to rid himself of the image of Cassie’s body. He couldn’t. Her perfect breasts and the blonde curls between her legs had been tattooed on his brain. And those long legs would look amazing on top of his sheets. Her sex goddess appearance, however, was only part of the problem with her. She embodied everything he didn’t want in a partner—inexperience, clumsiness, and a body he’d obsess over. Tucker must have planted her here as a joke. Simon didn’t appreciate the humor. The idiot had no respect for human life, only for outcomes.

  Throwing on running shorts and a black T-shirt, he slipped into the small office next to his bedroom, sat at one of the two desks, and logged into his computer. Without knowing his target, he had no idea how useful Miss Cassie Watson would be. He didn’t have time to play around, so he entered a little known database that held the personnel files of MI6’s most valuable assets and located Cassie Watson. Her file was only a few weeks old. Ms. Watson, formerly known as Catherine Wallace, was thirty-one, was born on the second of January at Bristol General Hospital, and had a PhD in Computer Science. A brain in a centerfold’s body.

  She’d taken a position at General Atomics, arriving at MI6 a year later. A robotics specialist with a focus on software development, and also a very capable hacker, she’d never experienced fieldwork. That was obvious. Despite remaining calm after he’d yanked her down, she didn’t respond defensively. No fight whatsoever. If he’d wanted to extract every bit of information in her head, he’d have had it in under two minutes.

  He needed food. Slipping past the living room without a glance toward his new partner, he headed to the refrigerator. Orange juice, iced tea, beer, fruit, vegetables. No eggs? Milk was missing as well. Who stocked a fridge without eggs?

  “You’re up early.” Her morning voice was deeper than the night before and sexy as hell.

  Temptation stood next to the couch with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, wearing a short nightshirt—emphasis on the short part. Holy hell. Distractions killed, and her looks could disarm a man even if her fighting skills couldn’t.

  “Did you do the shopping?”

  She nodded and padded into the kitchen in bare feet and daisy toes.

  “You forgot eggs and milk.”

  “No, I didn’t. I don’t eat animal products.”

  “Why not?” he shot back at her. His hunger had killed any small desire he might have to respond diplomatically.

  “It’s just wrong.” She slipped past him without meeting his gaze and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

  He tried to keep the scowl off his face, but her nonchalance pissed him off. The do-gooder attitude would screw up his work and his meals.

  He stepped toward her to see if she’d back up. She did. “Milk is not an animal.”

  “It comes from an animal.”

  He stepped forward again, and she coughed into her hand. Either the orange juice or his presence didn’t agree with her.

  This isn’t a game, pretty girl. This is a billion dollars, enough weapons to start an army, and a group of power hungry dealers who care more about profit margins than human—or animal—life

  She didn’t back away when he pretended to pick something off her shoulder. It was a start. Perhaps the shrinking violet thing was all an act. Doubtful.

  “Do you drink coffee?” Simon tried to be pleasant to her, but her apprehension bothered him.

  She nodded, yet her eyes never met his.

  “Good. Make the coffee. I’ll be back with a proper breakfast in an hour.” Some exercise and real food would help him empathize with this puzzle of a woman.

  “You’re leaving?” Tension surfaced in her jaw, and she sucked in her bottom lip. She had amazing lips. Probably the most distracting thing about her, besides her legs.

  He headed to the door and turned back toward her. “I work out every morning. I suggest you do the same. We’ll be busier in the afternoon and at night.”

  “I plan on doing yoga this morning.” She opened a cabinet. “Don’t worry about the coffee, it’ll be ready when you return.”

  Her nightshirt lifted up as she reached for the coffee, exposing pastel pink knickers. Four steps and he’d be next to her. He shook his head. He had an assignment to complete and a retirement to plan. Mindless sex with this gorgeous blonde would solve not one of his problems. It would only create a myriad of new ones.

  An hour later, he returned with proper provisions. Cassie sat in the kitchen, dressed in a long turquoise skirt and white T-shirt. Her hair was twisted into a bun, and not a spot of makeup marred her perfect complexion. The poster child for the all-American girl.

  She leaned on the table, reading a book while picking at a steaming plate of sweet potatoes and a mix of green vegetables. He’d had girlfriends who ate like rabbits, but he’d never had to rely on them to save his ass on a mission. She’d better keep up.

  “Coffee?” he asked with an attempted smile.

  “All done.” She tried to maintain eye contact. It would have been impressive if he hadn’t noticed her hand shaking. Despite her bravado, she wouldn’t last a week. Men with inverted moral codes would break her in one night, but it wasn’t Simon’s job to second-guess why she’d placed herself in the middle of a battlefield.

  “Can I pour it for you, boss?” A sliver of her smile emerged.

  He sighed and then laughed at his own hesitation to give her a break. “Only if your ethics allow you to add cream.”

  “I’ll make an exception this time.”

  He pulled out two pans and prepared himself an omelet with cheddar cheese, ham, sweet peppers, and mushrooms. Cooking was no hardship. It provided him a chance to relax and focus on one thing. When not in the kitchen, his thoughts needed to process transportation logistics, appraisals of non-cash collateral, technical information, and international arms treaties.

  She handed him some coffee. The old black mug felt funny in his hand. It belonged in Nicola’s. He preferred the large white one from the Hard Rock Cafe, which was situated next to Cassie. The temptation to take it back from her almost overtook him, but he suppressed it.

  Sitting at the table again, she glanced toward him. “You don’t seem the type to cook.”

  “I hate stereotypes, don’t you?” He took in her earthy outfit. Her hippie persona was definitely not going to work when they went to meet his contacts. Which brought him to his next question. “What’s your specialty?”

  “Robotics.” She shrugged, as though every bombshell of a blonde majored in robotics.

  “Any languages?”

  “I know about forty computer languages.”

  “Good. You can speak to all the computers we encounter. What about foreign languages?”

  “Spanish and French.”

  “Fluent?”

  “Mexican Spanish fluent, not so much in French. Since I don’t know my role, I’m unsure what skills I’ll need.”

  They must have chosen her for a purpose. She’d be the technical expertise, while he handled the practical logistics. “You’re supposed to be my lover. Are you comfortable with that?”

  He watched her reaction. She nodded, swallowed hard, and then
dropped her eyes to her potatoes. He’d take that as a no.

  Forty-eight hours later, Cassie still hadn’t received any information on what her role would be. Simon treated her as though she didn’t exist. He cooked for himself and spoke to random people on his phone. In response to her questions, he gave one-word answers. A few times he’d asked her to get out of the way because his body took up so much more of the hallway than hers did. He also refused to let her near the computers. Searching some of the case files would tell her something, and any bit of information would calm her nerves better than the nothing she knew presently.

  She’d looked Simon up on her work computer, one day before her office had been stripped of her things. That attempt to find out about him, however, had left her confused. Simon Dunn didn’t work for MI6. He didn’t seem to work anywhere. His record in the Driver and Vehicle Standards Agency held a minimal amount of data: his name, Simon C. Dunn; age, thirty-four years old; date of birth, the twenty ninth of May, four years before she was born. His address listed a location in some other part of London. Yet she couldn’t track down where he was born or any record of his education.

  She headed to the office and stationed herself behind him. He stared at the computer screen, sitting in the same position he’d been in all day. He’d only left his chair to eat, sleep, and exercise. Maps and papers covered the desk. He’d written most of his notes in a shorthand she didn’t recognize.

  The previous evening, he’d found his way to the living room to watch a soccer game. Stretched across the couch, also known as “her bed,” he yelled at the television until well past midnight. She’d fallen asleep on the recliner with a pillow over her head. When she woke, her back ached, but Simon’s blanket from his bed covered her body. Perhaps he only acknowledged her existence while she was sleeping.

  At the moment, she was awake. Therefore, he ignored her. Tapping his shoulder, she waited for him to look at her. He didn’t. She cleared her throat, but he still didn’t acknowledge her. “If we’re going to be stuck together, we should at least get to know each other,” she said.