by Kim Fielding
Table of Contents
Blurb
Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
By Kim Fielding
Coming in November 2018
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Copyright
The Spy’s Love Song
By Kim Fielding
For a singer and a spy, love might be mission impossible.
Jaxon Powers has what most only dream of. Fame. Fortune. Gold records and Grammy awards. Lavish hotel suites and an endless parade of eager bedmates. He’s adored all over the world—even in the remote, repressive country of Vasnytsia, where the tyrannical dictator is a big fan. The State Department hopes a performance might improve US relations with a dangerous enemy. But it means Jaxon’s going in alone… with one exception.
Secret agent Reid Stanfill has a covert agenda with global ramifications. Duty means everything to him, even when it involves protecting a jaded rock star. Jaxon and Reid’s mutual attraction is dangerous under Vasnytsia’s harsh laws—and matters get even worse when they’re trapped inside the borders. Romance will have to wait… assuming they make it out alive.
Reid felt as good as he looked, all soft lips and solid body. And he tasted good too. Whiskey. Chocolate. Heaven. Jaxon’s appetite returned in full force, but it wasn’t airplane steak he was ravenous for.
Jaxon let go of the tie, but only so he could grasp Reid’s shoulders instead, and Reid responded in kind. For a glorious few seconds, they made out like horny teenagers.
But before Jaxon could work out the logistics of joining the mile-high club—well, rejoining, since he was already a repeat member—Reid pulled away. He got off the bed and stood in the narrow space next to it, adjusting his tie. “We can’t do that,” he said evenly.
“Don’t tell me you’re not into guys, ’cause you were pretty into it.” For a moment anyway.
Reid shook his head. “This is a critical mission, and I’m your assistant. I need to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
Chapter One
A NAKED young man lay faceup on the billiard table, snoring softly. Lipstick smeared his face, but Jaxson couldn’t tell whether it was the kid’s own or if it had transferred from someone else’s mouth. The kid looked more comfortable than the other young man—this one wearing a leopard-print jock—who was curled on the hard tile under the billiard table, twitching in his sleep.
If Jaxon had learned their names, he didn’t remember them. Just as he couldn’t recall the names of the people scattered in the living room and bedrooms or the pretty woman in the armchair in the library. He didn’t care what any of them were called. At the moment, the only thing he wanted to know was where to find a goddamn bathroom. There had to be several of them in this overblown suite, right? But all he managed was a bleary circuit through toiletless rooms.
He’d almost decided to piss into a large potted ficus when a dapper gentleman in a well-tailored suit appeared. “May I help you, Mr. Powers?” His tone suggested he was accustomed to dealing with people whose brains weren’t fully functional.
“Bathroom?”
“Right this way.”
The man’s name was Roger Diggs. Jaxon remembered that. He was a butler who came with the suite. As Diggs led the way through the kitchen—its gleaming surfaces cluttered with empty bottles and takeout containers—Jaxon wondered what it would be like to have a career as a hotel amenity. Maybe not so bad. Diggs looked cheerful enough, not even batting an eye at the threesome snoozing on the floor in front of the dual fridges.
Jaxon had the enormous bathroom to himself. He felt better after emptying his bladder and splashing cold water on his face, although he carefully avoided glancing in the mirrors. Whenever he was sober, fully rested, and took time to shave and deal with his curly hair, he looked pretty good for a guy who’d recently stared down thirty-seven. This morning, though—if it was still morning—he probably resembled an extra in a zombie flick.
Diggs waited patiently just outside the bathroom. “Your phone’s been ringing, Mr. Powers. Frequently.”
“Ringing or playing a song?”
“A song.” The corner of Diggs’s mouth twitched. “The Notorious B.I.G., I believe.”
Shit. Jaxon rubbed his face. “Can you, um, point me to—”
“I have your phone right here. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty.” Diggs removed it from his inside suit pocket and handed it over.
Just as Jaxon took the phone, it began to belt out “Mo Money Mo Problems,” a tune almost as familiar to him as his own songs. Instead of answering, Jaxon glared at the screen until the music stopped.
“Perhaps,” Diggs began smoothly, “you’d like to take your call out on the terrace? It’s an unusually warm day. I can bring you coffee and a light breakfast.”
Jaxon’s stomach lurched. “Okay. Yes on the coffee, but I’ll skip the food.”
“Not even some toast?”
After consulting with his innards, Jaxon gave a cautious nod. “Dry.”
“Excellent. Follow me, please.”
They walked back through the kitchen, into the library, and up a set of stairs leading to a second floor of books. Then, to Jaxon’s surprise, Diggs tugged on one of the shelves. The hidden door led to a wide terrace that looked as if it had been transplanted from a Mediterranean palace. A tiled fountain burbled cheerfully in front of a panorama of the San Francisco skyline. Jaxon squinted at the sky. “Sun’s out.”
“If it’s too bright, I can—”
“It’s fine.” Maybe the light would help clear his head. He collapsed onto one of the patio chairs. “That coffee would be great now.”
“Right away. And your guests?” Diggs didn’t even pause before he said guests. The guy deserved a medal.
“Clear ’em out, please. I’ll pay for their Ubers or whatever. Just….” Jaxon waved vaguely.
“Of course.”
Jaxon was left alone with his phone and the view of the Transamerica Pyramid. Diggs had been right about the weather. Although Jaxon wore nothing but last night’s jeans and T-shirt, the temperature was comfortable—a rarity for early June in San Francisco, but pleasant. It had been years since he spent many daytime hours outside, and his skin eagerly soaked up the warmth. Maybe he was suffering from a vitamin D deficiency.
Although the phone played again, Jaxon set it on the table and waited. The chair wasn’t as comfy as he’d hoped. For twenty grand a night, you’d think the hotel could manage outdoor furniture with padded armrests. Jaxon considered asking Diggs to find him something better, but then rejected the idea. Diggs probably had his hands full already.
As if on cue, the butler appeared with an oversize china mug and matching plate, which he set on the table near Jaxon. “No cream or sugar, correct?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The coffee smelled wonderful, like a magic potion guaranteed to cure what ailed him, and the plate contained four triangles of wheat toast with a garnish of yellow and orange flower petals.
“Your guests have left. May I get you anything else?”
“No. Thanks.”
“All right. Just text if you need anything.” Diggs bobbed his head before going inside.
Jaxon
managed to eat half of the toast, and although the coffee wasn’t a magical cure, it did help him feel more human. Just as he was deciding whether to text Diggs and ask for a refill, the damn phone began to sing again. This time Jaxon answered.
“Hi, Buzz.”
“Top o’ the mornin’, Sleeping Beauty.” As always, he sounded unreasonably cheery, as if life was one big celebration, complete with balloons and confetti. Buzz Baker was the man who managed Jaxon Powers’s career. And to a large extent, managed Jaxon’s life as well. Which was why Jaxon was currently in San Francisco while Buzz was in LA—Jaxon was tired of being managed.
“What.” Jaxon knew he sounded petulant but couldn’t help it.
“How do you like the hotel?”
“I don’t know. It’s okay. I think I want to go somewhere else, though. Somewhere quiet.” He wasn’t sure where. It seemed as though no matter where he went—the desert, the countryside, tiny tropical islands, mountaintop lodges—he ended up with a retinue. He’d wake up in the mornings to find pretty strangers drooling on the billiard tables or grinning at him from the hot tub. He used to find them in his bed too, although that happened less often since he’d become better at saying no thanks.
“Sure, sure. Give me a few hours and I’ll come up with something. How do you feel about shipboard living?”
Jaxon sighed. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But that’s not why I called. For tonight, I need you to stay put and get some sleep. We have a 9:00 a.m. meeting at your hotel.”
“Meeting? Why?”
“To talk about a super-exciting gig.”
Jaxon tipped his head back and groaned. “No. I don’t even want to think about another tour right now. I’m nowhere close to recording the next album, and—”
“Not a tour, babe. Just one gig—but it’s a doozy. Special.”
“Are you gonna let me in on the details?”
“Sure thing, cupcake. Tomorrow at nine. For now I want you to get some rest, maybe do some work. Take a walk around Frisco!”
“Nobody really calls it that, Buzz.” Nobody except tourists from Indiana.
Buzz just laughed. “Eat clam chowder in a sourdough bowl. Ride a cable car. Buy souvenir back scratchers and paper lanterns in Chinatown. Pretend you’re not a jaded son of a bitch.”
When Buzz refused to talk about anything else except where to eat in San Francisco, Jaxon ended the call. He found his way to a shower—encountering nobody along the way except Diggs and some of the housekeeping staff—and later to the bedroom that housed his clothes. He needed to tell Buzz to stop booking such ridiculously large suites.
Dressed and more or less sentient, Jaxon took Buzz’s advice and went for a walk. He didn’t have the energy for a run. It was a glorious day in a beautiful city, with the bay sparkling like a jewel and a light breeze relaying the clang of a cable car. But despite the knit cap covering Jaxon’s famous red curls, people recognized him. And because San Francisco wasn’t as used to celebrities as were LA and New York, people stared and pointed. They took photos with their phones. And quite a few of them stopped him to ask for autographs or selfies.
He tried to be gracious with his fans; he really did. For one thing, he could still remember the rush of excitement when he was a teen and he met his idols in person. For another, if it weren’t for these fans, he wouldn’t be able to afford the obscenely expensive hotel suites. He’d still be stuck in a tiny town in the Nebraska Sandhills, maybe selling insurance to farmers and ranchers, as his dad did, or cutting and styling hair alongside his mom. He was grateful to his fans—but they made enjoying a simple stroll almost impossible.
After only a few blocks, Jaxon gave up and returned to the hotel. He considered going for a drive—up into Marin, perhaps, or down to Big Sur—but decided he didn’t want to be cooped up inside a car with only his own company.
Diggs met him inside the suite. “May I get you anything, sir?”
“No. Well, yes. Do you know a place to get good pizza?”
“Of course, several.” Diggs smiled. “My favorite is in North Beach.”
“Could you get a pie brought to me around seven tonight? Nothing fancy—just pepperoni. And some decent beer to go with it?”
“Naturally.”
“Thanks.”
A grand piano dominated a portion of the living room. Jaxon sat on the bench and began to play. He wasn’t an especially good pianist—his best instruments were guitars and his voice—but it seemed a shame to ignore the piano when it was sitting there, waiting. He ran through a few of his own songs, humming along but not singing, and then experimented with some new tunes. He’d already composed several for the next album, but he needed a few more, and he was having trouble coming up with anything satisfactory. Everything felt like a rehash of the stuff he’d been doing a decade earlier. Maybe he needed a new muse.
He played for hours without getting anywhere. Then Diggs brought him two six-packs of mixed microbrews and that pizza—as delicious as promised—and Jaxon ate alone at a dining table that could have seated twenty. Although he drank enough to get seriously buzzed, he didn’t go out to a club, didn’t make any effort to gather strangers eager to party with a rock star. Instead he soaked in a huge tub and watched Vertigo, sipping enough beer to keep from getting sober. It was still early when he chose a bedroom at random, fell onto the mattress, and sank into sleep.
Chapter Two
“OATMEAL.” Jaxon lifted the spoon and let the contents glop back into the bowl.
“It’s very good oatmeal,” Diggs said. “But I can get you something else if you’d prefer.”
Jaxon had awakened at the unholy hour of 8:00 a.m. and had taken a quick shower before settling on the terrace with coffee and breakfast. One of San Francisco’s signature fogs shrouded the city, so he wore a hoodie and his wool hat. Despite the chill, the eerie view was nice. He wasn’t so sure about breakfast, though.
“Do you live here at the hotel?” he asked.
Diggs chuckled. “No, I have an apartment in Oakland. But the hotel sometimes provides temporary quarters when I’m engaged with special clients.”
“You mean when you’re stuck with pains in the ass like me.”
“You’re not a pain at all.”
“I saw what this place looked like yesterday morning, dude. It was a mess.”
Diggs shrugged. “Easily cleaned. Believe me, I’ve worked with many guests who were difficult. You’re not one of them.”
“I guess I’ll have to step up my game,” Jaxon joked. “Wouldn’t want to wreck my reputation.”
“If you like, I’ll tell everyone you exhausted me with your constant demands and wild ways,” Diggs said.
Once upon a time, Jaxon would have exhausted him in exactly that manner. He would have awakened next to the naked man on the billiard table—equally naked himself—and instead of clearing out the guests, he’d have resumed the party with more booze, more food, more drugs, more sex. Then, in a few days, he’d have moved on to the next hotel in the next city, leaving Buzz to pay for the damage he’d left behind. But here he was now—up before nine, wearing clean clothes, and eating oatmeal.
“Do you have family?” Jaxon asked. Then he winced. “Sorry. That’s none of my business.”
“I don’t mind. I divorced years ago, but I have a son at Stanford. Biomedical computation. He’s doing very well.”
“Wow, that’s great. Congratulations. But you never remarried?” As if to make up for the prying questions, Jaxon swallowed some oatmeal. It wasn’t bad, actually.
Unflappable as always, Diggs smiled and shook his head. “I’m married to my job. It’s a happy union.”
“Really? Dealing with spoiled rich assholes doesn’t get to you?”
“I’ve met some of the world’s most fascinating people, and I’ve made their complicated lives a bit smoother. I find that rewarding.”
Before Jaxon could ask another question, his phone dinged, and he glanced at the scree
n. It was Buzz. Be ready in 15.
Jaxon started to type a smartass reply, erased it, and simply sent a thumbs-up. He was pissed at Buzz for being secretive about this meeting, yet he knew he deserved it. He hadn’t exactly been an easy client. And sure, Buzz made a lot of money off him, but Buzz worked damn hard for it.
Fifteen minutes later, Diggs let him know that Jaxon’s guests had arrived in the hotel lobby. “Coffee for everyone?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess. Um, in the library.” If he was going to act like a grown-up, that room seemed like the most adult place to have a meeting.
“Of course.”
The library was circular, and Jaxon was pacing its edge when he heard Buzz’s familiar voice. A moment later Buzz entered the room accompanied by a woman and two men in sober suits. Buzz wore a suit too, but his was crimson, with a canary silk shirt and matching yellow shoes. He performed quick introductions. The woman, thin and fiftyish, was Diana Chiu, and her body language suggested she was in charge. Clark Durant was a mousy-looking man, the type who seemed as if he’d been born with a calculator in his hand. And Reid Stanfill took Jaxon’s breath away. He was tall, rock solid, and square-jawed, with buzz-cut dark hair and amber eyes that laser-focused on Jaxon. Chiu and Durant smiled as they shook Jaxon’s hand, but Stanfill did not. And he didn’t try to prove his manliness by squeezing Jaxon’s hand to a pulp, maybe because he knew Jaxon needed that hand to play guitar.
Diggs wheeled in a cart bearing a sterling silver coffeepot and creamer, bone china cups and saucers, and a dizzying array of sweeteners. “Just text if you need anything, sir,” he said to Jaxon before gracefully retreating.
Stanfill snorted quietly—and didn’t look remotely ashamed when Jaxon shot him a glare.
Buzz led a round of small talk as he poured. Jaxon wasn’t at all surprised that Stanfill took his coffee black and without sugar. When the rest of them took their seats, Stanfill stood near the library doors like a sentinel, his huge paw dwarfing the china cup. Jaxon sat behind the large desk, which made him feel like a captain of industry instead of some guy who sang and played guitar.
