He was a professional first. A lover second.
I tried to remember that, but remembering did not completely alleviate the sting.
Breakfast was being held in the hotel ballroom. A large chandelier hung overhead, festooned with prisms that reflected the light and helped display the food to its greatest effect.
The food was self-serve, and that made me realize that I'd scarcely eaten since meeting with Hawk. I'd been too exhausted, too nervous, too busy to eat, and since Michael had most of the money now meal schedules were largely dictated by him.
When he remembered.
He was only slightly less distracted than I was. Maybe more so, over these last two days.
But now, with the smell of food hanging in the air like a fragrant curtain, I was starved, and my stomach was growling as loudly as an angry dog.
While living at my mother's, I had been coerced into following her diet, which changed by the week but usually included tasteless bland food in one form or another. She especially favored fat-free substitutes that claimed to be as good as the real thing but weren't. Not even close.
The food at college was similarly dissatisfying. Because I had to prepare everything I ate myself I couldn't have anything too complicated or fancy. Besides, it was too hot in Arizona to cook anyway. I lived on things that came out of packages and took thirty seconds or less to prepare: raw foods like apples and carrots, quick foods like rice and eggs.
Then there were the canned and dehydrated foods Michael had brought with us into the desert when we were on the run. Syrupy, oily foods meant to last for years in a basement bomb shelter.
Here, everything was freshly made and there was plenty of it.
There were croissants and danishes, even tastier-looking than the one I'd gotten from the cafe in the city. Thick slabs of French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar and swirls of maple syrup. New York-style bagels. Doughnuts. Cereals both healthy and non kept next to a vat filled with ice that contained cafeteria-sized milk cartons.
You could eat these things plain or snag one of the dainty packages of margarine, butter, maple syrup, fresh cream, jam, jelly, marmalade, or cream cheese.
To the right, stored on hotplates, were scrambled eggs, Southern style omelets studded with pimentos and green peppers like bits of confetti, bacon, sausage, golden hash browns.
And then, across from those, behind sneeze-guards and kept fresh in metal vats of ice, were the cold foods. Fruit salads were a given, with the obligatory melon slices. Hotel Azul was a particularly nice hotel, though, and there were several additional delicacies. Deviled eggs. Fresh sockeye salmon. Glistening spheres of honeydew and cantaloupe wrapped up in sweet prosciutto.
I had died and gone to food heaven.
“It's food.” Michael was standing beside me. I hadn't even heard him approach. “You've seen food before, haven't you?”
“Have you met my mother?”
I'd meant it as a joke, sort of, but his face closed off. “I got us a table,” he sad, before walking away. “Join me when you're ready.”
He'd had been carrying two plates. It looked like he'd pilfered all the bacon, too. I wondered if he was planning to finish all that food. I had never sat down and eaten a full, square meal with him before.
Seeing him with so much food made me feel less self-conscious about looking like a pig. Mentioning Mámá had been a mistake; it had triggered all of those niggling hang-ups I still had about eating.
Mámá was fond of saying that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels — an aphorism I was pretty sure she'd cribbed from one of the thinspiration sites she subscribed to online — but I believed that anyone who said such things had never tasted chili-cheese fries with melted cheddar, fresh ground beef, and Tapatio sauce.
I helped myself to some pain au chocolat, the Southern omelet, several of the prosciutto melon bells, the fruit salad, and after some hesitation, one of the bright orange slabs of salmon.
It took me a moment to spot him. He was sitting in the back corner, behind a row of potted trees that had been set up to give the dining area a more outdoorsy feel.
At least it isn't a corner booth. I won't have to sit next to him, like I did in the cafe.
On the table were three more plates I hadn't seen before — which meant he had approached me during a return trip. Five plates of food! I nibbled at my pastry, watching him tuck food away into places that surely defied basic human anatomy.
Michael took a long sip of coffee. “Haven't you ever seen a man eat before?”
I shook my head slowly. Not like that. My father ate like a henpecked bird. Mámá made him follow her diet, too. Or at least, she used to. He was in Em's hands now. She seemed to eat normally enough.
Michael speared a sausage. “You do the kind of work I do, you need to stay fueled.”
I popped a melon ball into my mouth.
“I figure this is as good a time as ever to discuss what your plans are once you start working.”
I lowered the second melon ball. “Plans? What plans?”
“What you're going to need before you go. Clothes for starters — your working wardrobe for that kind of business should consist of business formal and casual, workout/exercise clothes.”
“He still hasn't hired me — ”
Michael gave me one of those dark looks. Remembering the context of the first, I swallowed hard, and tried not to turn too red.
“Tools of the trade,” he continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted, but his eyes had taken on a dangerous light that made my breath come up short.
“Oh.” I sat up straighter. “Yeah, I wouldn't mind getting a set of screwdrivers and a couple manuals on C-plus-plus….”
He gave me another look.
“Just to brush up,” I protested. “I already know how to program. But I'd like some additional practice. It's been a while.” If Hawk was going to hire me based on an I.O.U. I at least wanted to come prepared.
“I was talking about mace. Knives. You still have the ones that you brought with you from your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He frowned in thought. Then he looked around, lowered his voice. “Maybe I'll get you a low-caliber gun, too.”
“No,” I said, “no guns.”
The thought of owning a gun made me feel ill. I'd held a gun in my hands only a handful of times, and only since I'd met Michael. Despite such limited experience, I was fully acquainted with what death traps they were.
“Would they even let me bring weapons in?”
Michael chuckled humorlessly. “They've got guns of their own, darlin. Big ones. They won't be concerned about you and your little toys.”
“Then what's the point?”
“The point,” he said, “is that it shows you've got the right mindset. The point is that it shows you're not marching into the lion's den unarmed and unprepared. Even if they take away the goddamn thing, having it shows that at the very least you're prepared to use it.”
He waved his fork for emphasis.
“And that's what counts.”
The more I learned, the less likely it seemed I'd be able to pull of working for the BN at all. Hawk's tentative endorsement of me had been lukewarm at best, and in spite of Michael's assurances to the contrary, I assumed that there would be the usual waiting period between interview and callback, fraught with all the usual — or maybe in this case, not so usual — uncertainties.
“They'll call,” he said. “I told you before, it's not like applying at the fucking Safeway.”
“You said they wouldn't call me back right away.”
“No. What I said was that they wouldn't call you back overnight. Quit your bellyaching, darlin. I'm sure they'll call, today or tomorrow. They'll call.”
How can you be so sure?
Either he was picking up on signals I had missed, or it was simply a matter of old habits dying hard, because the very next morning I received notification that I had gotten the job.
Chapter Four
Compromise
Christina
“Congratulations, Ms. Parker.”
Hawk spoke into the silence as I struggled to curtain my disbelief. Disbelief that this was really, finally happening. Disbelief that the biggest group of radical mercenaries in Europe wanted me to be their techie. It was like something out of a bad joke.
“The job is yours. We will begin preparation for your training immediately.”
Training? I felt the shocked smile slip from my face and was glad that he couldn't see it.
“What kind of training?”
On the other side of the room, Michael froze.
“It will be paid for in full,” Hawk said, mistaking the cause of my concern. Purposely? Was he trying to psych me out? Maybe he was so good at his job that intimidation was an incidental byproduct.
Neither thought was comforting.
“What do I have to be trained for?”
“Oh, the usual,” he said. “Physicals. Electronics. Various other things we deem necessary. I can't go into too much detail over the phone, but I can assure you that we will accommodate any needs you have to the best of our ability.”
“That's very kind of you.”
I knew I was stalling and didn't care. I was trying to figure out how to ask where he was going to send me. I had flashes of wind-ravaged moors, gray city-scapes, MI6. I gulped. They can't send me to England.
But that was the thing — they could.
And they might.
If I was in there employ, they could send me to China and I would be obligated to go.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it, Ms. Parker.” His response jerked me back to the present, back to reality. Not a fun place to be right now. “I consider you an investment. I think you will find that I am quite amenable to investing when the suggestion of payoff is imminent.”
In other words, you consider me a good buy.
At least I knew where I stood.
“I'll do my best not to let you down, sir.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but it is wholly unnecessary. You will not be given opportunity to do so.”
“Is that a threat?”
There was a blur of movement in my periphery.
“No, Ms. Parker. Standard policy for all new recruits.”
I darted a look at Michael, who was back on his feet and now looked as if he were weighing the practicalities of tearing the phone out of my hand and telling Hawk to shove it.
Just in case, I tightened my grip on the receiver.
“Where will you be sending me?”
“All our operatives remain quarantined on site during training. Easier to monitor training and get a feel for where your loyalties truly lie.”
“Where is the site, then?”
A pause. “At this point, we think it is best that you don't know. No hard feelings.”
“Just business.”
There was a second, measured pause. “Nothing as Machiavellian as that, Ms. Parker. Christina.”
“So that makes this — what? Machiavellian Diet?”
“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
“Wait, I still have one more question — ”
“We'll be in touch.”
I looked down at the silent phone and sighed. The feeling that this was all one big mistake surfaced once more and I was running out of ways to refute it.
A tan hand lifted the phone from mine. Michael was standing there, arms folded over the front of his wifebeater. The phone had disappeared.
“What did I tell you? You got the job.”
“The phrase 'out of the frying pan, into the fire' comes to mind,” I said, wishing doubts translated better into words. “But — ”
“But what? They want you. That's a good thing.”
“If it's such a good thing, why were you acting like you were going to snatch the phone away from me and tell him off?”
“Sounded like he was giving you a hard time.” Michael's face unreadable. “It is a good thing, darlin. It means you have someone to watch out for your sweet ass.”
“Great.”
“We need to get you kitted up. Once these things get rolling, they happen fast. Make a list of everything you think you need while I find a clean shirt.”
I dragged the chair up to the desk and scribbled the complimentary pen on the complimentary memo pad to get the ink running. I jotted down a few things that came immediately to mind. Toothpaste, clothes, and the like. But I had no idea what I'd need.
Michael was pulling the wifebeater over his head. My mouth went dry, watching him undress. Arching his back, all the muscles in his front and sides pulling taut. He had stripped like that for me.
I quickly returned to the task at hand before he could catch me staring at him.
What did I need? Think. Programming manuals in C++. Maybe some Java. Yes, I needed to brush up on Java, too. Sanitary napkins. Midol. Mace. No, I had mace in my backpack.
Fresh underwear….
My eyes drifted back to the far side of the room.
Just to see if he was ready.
“I saw that.”
The voice, spoken into my ear, made me shriek in surprise. “Saw what?”
Michael was wearing a black shirt and a watch. I heard it ticking when he reached up with the hand it was strapped to and pushed my hair away from my ear. “That look. Those were fuck-me eyes.”
My mouth snapped shut with a click. He saw? My face was aflame. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit shit shit.
There was one small mercy; with my back to him, he couldn't see my complete and utter mortification.
“So what if they were?” I said haughtily.
Laughter in my ear, as liquid as melted butter. “We'll play later,” he assured me. “I'll show you want happens to women who tease me.”
My stomach corkscrewed traitorously.
“Get up,” he said, and I heard his footsteps fade towards the direction of the door. “Let's go.”
But my leg were like rubber.
Michael
Getting supplies in San Francisco would be easier than getting them in some podunk town in rural Arizona. I studied Christina's list as we walked through the mall. It was pretty thorough but she was missing a couple things I thought she'd need.
Christina was a survivor but not a survivalist.
She was walking beside me, canvas shopping bags looped around her wrists. California had recently implemented a “no plastic” policy. You either had to bring your own bags, or buy your own.
She was swinging the damn things back and forth like a kid half her age. “You're going to tear them,” I said, after several minutes of this.
“They're built like tanks.”
“You've never seen a tank.”
“Have you?” she demanded.
I decided not to answer her. She decided to keep swinging the bags. Little minx.
“I never liked clothes shopping,” she said suddenly. “I never have. Not even when I was little. Even though my mom's an über fashion icon. Maybe because my mom is an über fashion icon. She always seemed to suck the fun right out of it.”
Her mother was one of the most pathetic women I'd ever met. An aging model, living in the past, taking out her insecurities about her dying career on her daughter.
Christina had faced off against a man versed in all manner and methods of torture — and lived. She had survived captivity under a ruthless assassin whose name tended to make certain people in certain circles shit themselves a little in fear. Knowing what this man was capable of, she made that same assassin an offer he couldn't refuse, to save the lives of her shit-for-brains parents who had made her life such hell by putting her into danger in the first place.
If I had been in my right mind at the time I never would have accepted that deal. But even green blood can run hot and mine was certainly no exception.
Gypsy hair. Blue eyes. A body with plenty of places for a man to put his hands. She was a red-lipped Carmen: voluptuous, innoce
nt, and sexy as hell. Yet she was insecure about her looks and ignorant to the effect they had on the opposite sex.
It had been the biggest mistake of my life, sleeping with the cloistered Catholic schoolgirl.
She was still complaining about her mother.
“You know, if you don't quit your complaining I'm going to march you through this store with a gag. I don't want to hear you parroting the psycho bullshit your mother force-fed you.”
“I wasn't — ”
“Furthermore, you think I like spending my time looking around at overpriced ruffly shit? No. I don't. But it's necessary, and dammit, you're going to be properly attired even if I have to strip you down and dress you myself. And don't think I won't, because I will — and I'll enjoy it. Because as much as you seem to hate that luscious ass and those gorgeous tits of yours, I fucking love them.”
Her face was red when I had finished. She looked as if she wanted to avoid my eyes but couldn't find anywhere satisfactory.
“Don't get all hot and bothered on my account.”
“You think I'm gorgeous?”
“When I look at you, all I can think about are the different ways I'd like to fuck you?”
“So that's a yes then?” she said shyly.
“No, darlin. It's an I-hope-you-weren't-planning-on-sleeping-alone-tonight.”
“That depends on how big of a bastard you plan on being today,” she said archly.
“Am I that bad?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at me askance. “You are.”
We hit a few more stores before I was ready to call the mission finished. But Christina insisted on stopping by Radio Shack because she wanted to get some manuals and spare parts to dick around with.
“You do know they'll supply you with all the electronics you need,” I said. “Save your money.”
“This is different. I want to learn how to make motion-detectors and little recorders.”
“You mean, bugs.”
“That's right.”
“Did Hawk give you that as a homework assignment?”
“No. I just want to learn. I think it would be useful to know how.”
It would be useful. A little too useful.
Locked and Loaded Page 4
