Love, Lies, and British Spies

by Selena Laurence

  Eva’s brow was furrowed and her lips pursed. “So,” she said turning to Pilar. “All this time you’ve been feeding me information that was just leading up to this phony mission?”

  Pilar smiled sweetly. “I’m sorry my friend, but yes. I’m afraid everything I told you was information that Hassam made up just for this cause.”

  Now Owen looked shrewdly at Hassam. “And why would you agree to cooperate with all of this? I seem to recall that helping Eva and I reunite was about dead last on your list of things you’d like to do this year.”

  “That,” growled Hassam, “Is not something I will discuss with you. But suffice it to say that I do not do this willingly.” He shot a wrathful look at Pilar who smiled benignly.

  “And you?” Owen said looking at Derrick and then Alicia. “What was your part in all of this?”

  “Oh, we’ve been training Eva as well as keeping track of Pilar and her brother to make sure they were on the up and up.”

  “Huh!” Pilar huffed. Hassam just rolled his eyes.

  “Well,” Eva said curtly. “It looks as though everyone did their duty as assigned, and I guess you’d consider the mission a success then?”

  “Well, these dolts think the fact they just listened in on some heavy breathing indicates you’re back together and everything’s hunky dory,” Alicia said, “But Pilar and I know that isn’t always how it works.”

  Pilar nodded in assent.

  “So, I’m just going to ask. Owen, Eva, are you back together?”

  Owen looked at Eva, saw her irritation dissolve, and grinned. “Well, love?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “We are back together. Permanently.”

  Later on, Alicia would swear that even Hassam cracked a smile.

  Epilogue

  London — Five Weeks Later

  Owen and Eva stood in the beverage aisle of the Tesco and argued. She didn’t want the radishes he had put in their trolley. “I hate them. I never ate them when you used to buy them for me.”

  “You’ve never even tried them,” he groused. “They’re very healthy and you don’t eat enough vegetables.”

  “You know I’ll throw them out as soon as you leave tomorrow,” she said.

  He sighed and put a six-pack of juice into the trolley. “You’re a difficult woman, you know that?”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told,” she laughed. “Honey? I know I said I didn’t want to go with you on this tour, but I was wondering if I might come along after you get to Paris?”

  “Of course, love. You know I’d have you with me for every single concert if I could. Shall we make some new memories in Paris then?” he smirked as he leaned down and smoothed his lips across her cheek.

  “Oh, yes, that’s a perfect idea. Do you mean that about me coming to all of your concerts?” she asked as she steered him towards the pharmacy aisle.

  “Absolutely. I know your work schedule doesn’t always allow it, but since I’m truly just a musician these days there’s no reason in the world why you can’t come with me when I tour.”

  “Well, you know, if I started my own decorating firm instead of working for someone else I could decide my work schedule,” she said as she searched the pharmacy shelves.

  “You think you want to start your own business?” he asked as he picked up a tube of toothpaste, squinted at it and then set it back down.

  “Well, it might be for the best. Assuming this test works out like I think it will,” she stated, holding a box up in front of him.

  “What test … ” he stopped and read the outside of the box. “You’re not serious?” he asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am quite serious.”

  “How? When?” he choked out.

  “Well, that would be Egypt, dear.”

  “But, uh, you’ve always been on the pill … ” he gasped.

  “Not after we split up in Paris. I wasn’t taking it when we were in Egypt. I’m sorry, I should have thought about it. You’re upset aren’t you? Oh, God, I was afraid this wouldn’t be good news, we just got back together a few weeks ago and you’ve given up your career, and now I spring this on you … ”

  “Eva,” he said.

  “Maybe it won’t be positive, you know stress can do all sorts of things to women’s cycles, I probably just haven’t adjusted after all of that craziness … ”

  “Eva?”

  “I had a friend once who was so stressed out by her job that she went for months without any regular cycle and … ”

  “Eva!” he shouted in exasperation.

  Her mouth snapped shut. “Yes?” she squeaked.

  “I love you.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And I’m thrilled.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, love, absolutely thrilled,” and Owen Martin kissed his wife and she kissed him back, and it was nothing short of perfection.

  About the Author

  Selena Laurence loves to write romantic stuff that helps you get away. Life can be a grind, and things like jobs and kids and dirty dishes make Jill a dull girl – and Selena too. So, she writes about hot guys and smart girls and exotic locales to give us all an Escape from the Everyday. Selena lives with her children, her husband, and a really spoiled Goldendoodle in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Find out more about Selena and her work at www.selenalaurence.com.

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Cupid’s Revenge by Bea Moon)

  When Maggie Tyler’s grandma left this earthly coil, she bequeathed Maggie two things: the proceeds of her life insurance policy and a seemingly endless list of maxims to live by. One of her favorites was “If you break a carton of eggs, just laugh and make an omelet.” And heeding grandma’s advice, Maggie was stirring up her own omelet. But laughing? Not a chance. Not after that evening when her high hopes had come crashing down, burying her dreams and plans for living happily ever after in the debris.

  It was hard to believe that an evening that started out with so much promise had ended so badly. All seemed right when Andy called, saying he needed to talk to her. She’d pulled out all the stops. If there was ever a time to look great, this was it. Her shoulder-length auburn hair, pulled back with tiny tendrils framing her face, pale blue eye shadow to bring out the sapphire blue of her eyes — she knew she looked good. At eighteen, she’d been her high school homecoming queen. At thirty-two, she hadn’t changed that much. If anything, the passing years had added the gloss of confidence and sophistication that no eighteen-year-old could achieve.

  She’d been widowed at twenty-two when her high school sweetheart died on a dusty Afghanistan road. It had taken her a long time to come out from under the cloud that enveloped her but come out she had. If something was lacking in her affair with Andy, she chalked it up to maturity. She knew she couldn’t duplicate the breathless longings and excitement of first love. Life with Andy would be an oasis of calm, and she decided that wasn’t so bad a substitute. Now, as she put the final touches on her hair and makeup, she was prepared to open the new chapter in her life. Mrs. Andy Wells. It had a nice ring to it.

  She walked into Le Maison, a place of soft lighting and modulated voices. He had already been seated. His troubled expression should have given her a clue, but she was too caught up in her own fantasy to notice. She crossed the room, pleasantly aware of the admiring glances that followed in her wake. As she drew abreast of the table, he stood up. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. Hey, no sense in getting all X-rated in a crowded restaurant. How would he propose? Had he planted a diamond in her cocktail? Ordered a dessert flying a little flag that said “Will you marry me?” She smiled across the table at him. They’d have beautiful children. Two would be nice, a boy with his curly, dark hair and dimples, a girl with her auburn hair and perfect smile. She was roused from her reverie when Andy waved the waiter away. “Maggie, I don’t know how to say this.”

  She smiled encouragingly.

  “I never meant for it to happen. I s
wear to you, Maggie. But Jennifer and I … ”

  For a moment, the smile was frozen on her face. Jennifer? The young blond who’d come to work in condo sales just a few months before? She stared at him, shocked.

  “I never expected it,” he went on. “But we worked together on that big Weatherly sale, you remember? The one that sold for four point two million? And it got so complicated. We had to work nights and weekends.” He hesitated, avoiding her eyes. “Maggie, it wasn’t something I planned … ” but she had tuned him out.

  Her imagination conjured up a picture. Jennifer and Andy bent over appraisals, blueprints, title documents, while Cupid, like a diaper-clad stalker, crouched behind the file cabinet at Barnett & Holmes Real Estate, bow drawn tight, letting fly an arrow that lodged not in Andy’s heart, but a bit lower — right smack in the center of his lying, cheating, lowdown butt.

  Maggie was a highly efficient, well-educated executive assistant. She should have taken the blow with dignity and walked out with her head held high. But unknown to her, beneath her calm, well-ordered persona there lurked a crazy woman, itching for an opportunity to burst out. In that moment, Maggie’s rational, ladylike behavior gave way and crazy lady took over.

  “You and Jennifer? After I wasted two years? Two damned years?” Her voice had risen.

  “Maggie, please,” he cautioned her. “Everybody’s looking.”

  “Let ‘em look,” she yelled. She pushed back her chair, sending it flying backward as she stood up. “I want everybody to know what a rotten, lying, sneaking, cheating … ” she had run out of adjectives. She wished now that she’d ordered a cocktail so she could throw it in his face. But she had to settle for the folded napkin that she hurled at him. It fluttered harmlessly to the table.

  The maitre d’ hurried toward them.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t ma’am me,” she shouted, running out of the restaurant before she could embarrass herself further.

  The crazy lady, once she’d been set free, refused to go back into whatever dark corner of Maggie’s psyche she’d formerly occupied. Within two weeks of her debut at Le Maison, she followed up with a truly outstanding performance. Maggie had climbed the corporate ladder by means of ambition, ability, and personal charm. She was now the executive assistant to the company vice president in charge of media relations — a position that required extreme tact and the ability to deal with harried, sometimes temperamental account executives. Her warmth and calm demeanor had on more than one occasion defused a potentially explosive situation. Her job required numerous interpersonal skills, but nothing in her arsenal had prepared her for the daily challenge of walking past the Condo Sales Division, where both Andy and Jennifer sat. For the first week after Andy’s bombshell, Maggie contented herself with hurling icy glares at both of them as she strode past their desks. This proved unsatisfactory as neither Andy nor Jennifer would meet her enraged eyes. It was then that the “crazy lady” re-emerged, pen in hand.

  Maggie discovered a previously untapped talent. She began to create poison pen notes, complete with stick figures depicting both Jennifer and Andy. She posted them on the company bulletin board while asking herself if she was truly insane. She knew she was on a collision course with unemployment. Sooner or later, she’d be found out. But try as she might, it was a compulsion that she couldn’t control. Maybe it just went to prove another of Grandma’s maxims: hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  Most of the staff found her artwork entertaining. Management apparently had no sense of humor because within a week a nanny-cam was installed, Maggie was caught red-handed and canned.

  As for romance, the only male to warm her bed was Doc, a mangy cat that wandered into her life right after Andy wandered out. She’d spotted him crouched beneath a bush outside her condominium, wet and frightened. Where he came from was anyone’s guess, but he’d obviously done some very hard time in the cat world. He looked like he’d been the loser in a kitty brawl, with chunks of his orange fur torn off and one eye missing. He was skinny and covered with fleas. Her heart went out to the poor, half-starved creature and she’d taken him in, fleas and all. After two months of gentle care, he was flea-free and plump, but that was as good as it would get. Poor Doc was born ugly and his subsequent troubled life had done nothing to improve his looks.

  He established his own private sanctuary behind the sofa, where he’d take shelter at the first sign of any disturbance, be it the ringing phone, a knock on the door, or a strange voice. Somewhere in his hard-luck past, Doc must have tried the fight or flight routine and learned the hard way that flight was his best choice.

  Maggie was facing some hard times herself. Starting over at age thirty-two wasn’t easy, but she decided to make a clean sweep of it. Addiction was a terrible thing, be it love or cigarettes, and she was determined to remove both from her life. She pictured herself stuffing a carton of cigarettes into a thick safe, followed by her foolish romantic heart. Lock ‘em up and throw away the key. She still suffered wild nicotine cravings, but love? Uh. Never again!

  Number one priority was finding a job, one that would replace her former position with Barnett & Holmes. There were positions out there for a top notch executive assistant, but the jobs dried up when she faced the human resources director’s inevitable question: “You were with Barnett & Holmes for twelve years? Why did you leave?” A truthful answer, because I went nuts wouldn’t cut it, she knew.

  After being out of work for nearly two months, Maggie could feel the teeth of the Poverty Wolves snapping at her heels. Fortunately, before she was forced to dip into “granny’s money,” a job opened up at Party World. They didn’t ask too many questions of their party balloon coordinator, a fancy job description for pumping helium gas into brightly colored balloons.

  But somewhere in the bowels of Party World corporate offices there was a sadist who decided that pumping balloons wasn’t humiliating enough. No indeed. The balloons had to be pumped by a cartoon character, Binky the Baboon, who was dressed appropriately in a dark brown baboon suit with huge, furry brown feet attached. To make it thoroughly shame inducing, Binky sported a gigantic red vinyl butt that protruded a good six inches out from the body. Each morning, Maggie had to slip into her “monkey suit,” take a quick look to make sure none of the neighbors were watching, and make a mad dash to her car, the butt bobbing up and down with a life of its own. She had to admit that the butt made a nifty little cushion when she sat behind the wheel, but God forbid she was ever stopped by a traffic cop. There had to be a law against driving while wearing baboon footies.

  On a humid Friday morning, just three weeks into her new job, she awoke to a day that started out on a depressingly low note: an empty coffee canister, a reminder of just how out-of-control her life had become. She gulped down a cup of muddy brew left over from the day before. While she struggled into her Binky suit, she fought the daily battle with the nicotine devils. The day continued spiraling downward when she got stuck in the rush hour traffic, and finally to top it off, the air conditioner in her car burped once and died. She sighed. Why did it always quit in the midst of a South Florida heat wave? Couldn’t it have given up the ghost in November? She began to itch beneath the thick fur.

  As she pushed open the door of Party World, a wave of loud music greeted her and she winced, remembering almost fondly the hushed atmosphere at Barnett & Holmes.

  “Miss Tyler.” The wrinkled old prune of a manager hurried toward her. Maggie dashed toward her cubicle, pretending not to hear, but Mrs. Owens was surprisingly fleet of foot for an old hag. She caught up to Maggie before she was a dozen feet inside the door.

  “We open at ten, sharp,” she said. “Not five minutes past ten, not one minute past ten. Ten sharp.”

  “I got stuck in traffic.”

  Mrs. Owens was having none of this. “We all have to deal with traffic, but we all manage to get here on time.” She took a second look at Maggie. “Where is your Binky Bonnet?”

  “It’s at th
e work station,” Maggie waved a paw toward the cubicle where she spent the day hemmed in by balloons and helium tanks.

  “You should be fully dressed when you walk through the door,” Mrs. Owens snapped. “You’re an actress, and it’s important that you stay in character. Please be sure to come properly dressed from now on.”

  Never, never, would Maggie don the Binky Bonnet and drive all the way across town, wearing the round hood with the perky ears. The bonnet covered her head so that only her face peeped out. She’d have to come in very early, find a parking space near the door, then wait for the store to open so she could tug on the bonnet and race inside. Mrs. Owens brushed her fingertips over the Binky suit.

  “The corporation pays very good money for these suits,” she chided. “Have you been using the fluffer comb we provided?”

  A fluffer comb, a Binky Bonnet … where would it end? She made her getaway, the large baboon feet slapping against the floor as she walked. This is all your fault, Andy. I’ll get you for this someday, as God is my witness.

  She approached her work station, shuddering as the recorded voice, helium high, chortled out at her. “Yippee! Just pick your colors, we’ll do the rest, to ensure your party is the very best!” followed by a shrill baboon shriek of joy. This recording played over and over all day. Coupled with her nicotine cravings, she was definitely teetering on the edge.

  She pulled the Binky Bonnet over her head and tucked in any runaway tendrils of hair. She was grateful that there was no mirror in her cubicle so she was spared the sight of her pretty face peeping out from a fuzzy baboon head. She pinned the name tag — Binky in bright orange letters on an oversize brown shield — over her left breast and fired up the helium tanks, steeling herself for another soul-crushing day.