Six
Dad cleared his throat after an awkward silence. Blood rushed to my face, mostly because I was tilting forward.
“And folks, here’s Savvy,” he said
Gray slowly let out the line and my body lowered, one painful yard at a time. My limbs hung useless, the halter riding up between my legs. I begged the spy gods to whisk me away, somewhere, anywhere.
The ground drew closer, and I tried to get my feet to land first. But I just ended up flopping around like a fish on a hook. After minutes of ultimate humiliation, I hovered inches from the ground, close enough to kiss the dirty cement. A part of me wanted to, and I swear I heard a snicker. Maybe it was Malcolm.
Aimee helped me to my feet and guided me over to the rest of the staff. I walked past the macho man and noted his name: Cliff Peyton. Frankie winked at me. I refused to look at Malcolm, and I didn’t have to look at my dad. Disappointment rolled off him in Tsunami-like waves. I wanted to burst out that I’d tried, but the guy I thought I’d killed just showed up alive.
I grabbed the easel and paints for my next part of Spy Games and left before anyone could tell me what a spy dork I was and that I should set up a cart and sell friendship bracelets for the rest of my life.
As I traveled to the Louvre, I needed a release, something to focus on besides the major-Malcolm-rage ripping through me. That distraction came in pieces of colored candy. After shoving a handful of Skittles into my mouth and stuffing the package back in my bag, I strode into the humongous courtyard of the palace of medieval kings. It surrounded me on three sides, with turrets, arched entranceways, and fancy stone work that made me want to wear a bustle and carry a parasol. Every time, no fail, it sent a thrill through my chest, but all I could focus on was the metal tray pressed against my skin.
My homemade bulletproof vest.
That’s right. After my humiliating fall from the rafters, I shoved that baby right back into place before leaving the warehouse.
A wind blew through, and I held the beret against my head as I gripped my art supplies. Every few seconds, I couldn’t help but glance around for anyone suspicious holding a sniper rifle. I hurried through the early crowds and into the glass pyramid, smack dab in the middle of the courtyard, which leads downstairs to the information desk and into the museum. A special tag allowed me to bypass buying a ticket. Sweet deal.
Aimee and I played informants. At the Louvre, I passed off an envelope to the spy teams filled with crucial information in exchange for money. She worked the Eiffel. There was something very satisfying about collecting stacks of green. It wasn’t real money, of course, but it looked it. If someone found a stack lying on the side of the street, they wouldn’t know it was fake until they were tracked down and thrown in jail for counterfeiting.
Walking through the hallways that would soon be bustling with tourists, I headed to the Vien Room on the second floor. In a flash, my easel was set up, canvas ready to go, and paints in hand. I loved being the first in the large room, enjoying the company of the masterpieces on the wall. Only a small bench with black padding decorated the room. The paintings more than made up for the lack of fancy furniture. These quiet moments alone were the hardest because inevitably they gave me time to think. And the only thought crossing my mind was that someone shot at me the night before.
Inspired by the old masters and with a shaky hand, I added a few brilliant strokes to my half-finished masterpiece of a naked angel with wings—a cherub kissing the forehead of a half-clothed female. I blew it a kiss. “Magnifico!”
“That’s bloody nice work,” a male voice with a hot English accent said behind me. “Been working on it for a long time?”
I peeked over my right shoulder. A young man with long bushy hair covering his eyes set up his easel near mine. Great. A real art student. He’d never understand my job. And I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
“If you need any tips on the naked part, let me know. Maybe I could be of help.” He didn’t even try to hide the innuendo. Perv. I bit back my retort and focused on the wings, squiggling my brush down the canvas, and I hoped he wouldn’t spot me for what I was—a total fake. He turned his back to me with a toss of his scraggly hair.
With my eye on my watch and my arm poised to paint, the first spy group entered the room. They stuck out like a finger painting next to a Van Gogh, their rainy day trench coats and sunglasses screaming wannabe. Huddled in a group by the opposite doorway, they searched for the struggling art student (a.k.a., me). By the end of the four hours they’d be knocking out bad guys in a cutthroat race for the prize.
“Oo la la! What a gorgeous painting!” With a dramatic flourish, I finished off the wings. “Just being here among the masters fills my soul with love.”
“Do they always dress like that?” The art student nodded toward the amateur spies as one of them crossed the room. He pushed his hair away from his face and revealed his familiar face. Malcolm! He was wearing a wig!
“What are you doing here?” I muttered out of the corner of my mouth while keeping my eyes glued on my wing, which looked slightly like a burnt marshmallow.
He stopped painting and turned his gray eyes on me. “Not even a ‘glad to see you’re alive’?”
“Glad to see you’re alive,” I managed, controlling my rage. While I thought he might be dead, he played jokes!
At that point, I almost reverted back to kindergarten coloring and painted a bright yellow sun in the sky, because the spy team had split up and were asking anyone with a scarf wrapped around his neck, the prepared question. How could they not recognize the girl who fell from the ceiling with the safety straps riding up her butt? I was right in front of them.
I pulled out my ponytail to help them recognize my long dark hair and jacked my voice up an octave. “I study painting under the great Gloria Van Deusel. And she is ze most wonderful teacher. I just love painting and being an art student so much.”
Malcolm snorted. “You might want to work on that accent.”
“Your fake British accent isn’t much better.” I shot back. I wanted to ask him how he managed to escape the night before and if his arm was okay, but I couldn’t stop the angry words from spilling out. “I thought you were dead.”
He narrowed his eyes but didn’t have time to explain because a wannabe spy approached him and not me. All my arm waving and mixtures of Italian and French had been pointless.
The older woman, with long, graying hair up in a bun, tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse-moi?”
Malcolm thickened his accent and branched off into the subtleties of shadowing techniques. The lady glanced back at her team and shrugged. They waved her on and pointed toward me.
And then because I was afraid Malcolm would screw it up, I leaned over and said, “I can help you, Miss.”
She read from a note in her hand. “Do they sell blueberry scones?”
I gave my scripted line. “No, but there is a café nearby where you can find a cream puff.”
Then I dug into my satchel and handed her an envelope. I dropped my satchel on the ground behind me and continued to paint while she dropped the money rolls into my bag.
She rushed back to her group, waving the envelope in the air. Good thing our national security wasn’t on the line, or we’d all be dead. Something to talk to Dad about.
I smoothed down my artist’s smock and worked on mixing the right shade of green for the grassy hillside. “I can’t believe you followed me here,” I whispered. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
“Me?” Malcolm didn’t look at me but mixed his paints. “The least you could do is say you’re sorry. I’m pretty forgiving.”
With each stroke of my paintbrush, my rage simmered, bubbling, ready to explode. “Seriously? After the stunt you pulled this morning, I’m not the one who should be apologizing.”
After that we both turned to our easels. I painted the same blade of grass over and over, basically ruining my painting, and Malcolm’s arm whipped back
and forth across the canvas in jerky movements.
The next team that came through did better, until they shoved the money roll into my satchel. As soon as they turned to leave, Malcolm jabbed his paintbrush at me. Pecan brown splattered across my face.
“What stunt?” he demanded. “At least I didn’t take your clothes off and tie you up.”
I ignored the slam. “What stunt?” My throat ached but I held back the sob. “The one where you told me to run from the shooting and then never met me again. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. You didn’t show up to work and then sauntered into Spy Games like a king. That stunt.”
I had to completely turn away before I throttled him. Tears burned.
The hard tone in his voice softened. “I didn’t realize you cared.”
“Of course, I cared, I left my date bleeding to death with some madman on the loose.”
“I told you it was just a grazing.” His voice dropped lower and he nudged me with his elbow. “Admit it. You think I’m cute, don’t you?”
It was my turn to splatter him with paint. “Hardly.”
“Though you do have an odd way of showing it.” He rubbed the red marks on his wrists from the ties.
I refused to feel guilty. “At the time I had my reasons.”
He placed his oil paints onto the stool next to him and stepped closer to me. “Aren’t you the least bit interested in what happened?”
“I’m glad you’re alive. But no!” I grabbed my bag from the floor and used it as a shield.
A guard sauntered across the room, close enough to listen.
Malcolm put his hands on the bag and tried to keep me from backing away. “You can at least let me explain!”
I pulled back, hard, and pushed him away with my right foot.
“Never!” Tears burned and the emotion of the night before and this morning caught up to me.
He fell back on his butt, except he never let go of my bag. I lunged for the handle, and we fought in a tug-of-war. With one final yank, I ripped it from his hands. The momentum pulled me back and I flailed my arms for balance. Green bills fluttered in the air as I lost my hold.
Tiny rainbow-colored pebbles seemed to float in the air around us. Shock crossed Malcolm’s face and he paled. The guard raced forward. I cringed as the candy hit the floor like an avalanche and skittered across the tiles to the far reaches of the room.
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm gasped out. “You had food? In the Louvre?”
I could have sworn the whole room, even the walls, gasped, and the angel in the painting smirked.
Damn.
A Spy Like Me Page 6
