Live and Let Spy by Elizabeth Cage Page A

budge.
    Suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps filled the silence.
    Theresa’s mouth went dry as cotton. She froze.
    What was she going to do now?
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    â€œHere’s a list of people who will be at Sunday’s open-trade-pact signing, Ms. Ribiero,” Alexander Gottwald told Jo as he handed her a thick stack of paper right before lunch. “The caterer needs a final head count, so confirm these RSVPs ASAP.”
    â€œA-OK,” she replied.
    Gottwald didn’t seem to get it.
    As he disappeared into his office Jo quickly scanned the list. The name “Karkovic, Gogol” jumped out immediately.
    He’ll be dead meat if we don’t stop this, Jo thought. Less than six days were left until the—
    Someone cleared his throat behind her. Jo turned.
    Ewan Gallagher!
    He was even more gorgeous than in her nightmares!
    Jo forced herself to stay cool, showing no signs of recognition—or lust—as she scoped him out.
    Ewan’s gelled blond hair was in tousled waves atop his head. His cold blue eyes were like icicles boring into her own. When he smiled, two adorable dimples dotted his cheeks.
    And the devastating final touch—his Armani was a perfect fit.
    â€œCan I help you?” Jo asked coolly.
    â€œI’m Ewan Gallagher, director of international relations,” he said. “And you are?”
    She stuck out a Versace-covered arm and shook his hand. “Selma Ribiero, intern,” she said, flashing him her pearly whites in what she hoped was a friendly and not flirtatious way. “Anything I can do for you?”
    He smiled. “Actually, I was wondering if you could type up some memos for me. My secretary has gone home sick. Twenty-four-hour bug, we hope.”
    â€œNo problem,” Jo said, locked in his magnetic gaze.
    â€œCan you type the top two in French?” he asked, eyebrow cocked.
    Jo lowered her eyelids halfway. “I think I can handle that.”
    â€œI am impressed, Miss Ribiero,” he replied, slipping a hand casually into his pocket. “Most Americans can speak only English.”
    â€œWell, I got around quite a bit in my youth,” Jo explained, flashing her best smile again. “It’s a small world.”
    â€œIndeed,” Ewan replied. “And yet we receive small surprises every day.”
    â€œI surprise you?”
    Ewan chuckled. “Perhaps you should get back to your memos, Miss Ribiero.”
    â€œCall me J—just Selma.”
    Oops. Steady, girl.
    â€œSelma,” Ewan repeated, eyes twinkling. “A very pretty name.”
    â€œThank you,” Jo replied, even though she hated the name.
    He checked his watch. “Now I must go. Feel free to drop the memos in my in-box when you get the chance.”
    â€œWill you be in?”
    Ewan smirked. “I doubt it, Selma. I get around quite a bit myself.”
    He turned and strode down the hallway. He turned the corner and was gone.
    Jo let out a sigh. Then smiled slyly.
    â€œI think I got him,” she whispered.

SEVEN
    Just open! Theresa silently pleaded as she tried Anka’s dressing room lock.
    Still nothing. Nothing but approaching footsteps and the pounding of her own heart.
    The footsteps grew nearer and nearer. Faster, faster . . .
    One more time, she told herself. Shutting her eyes, she tried to envision the door opening easily as she turned the key in the lock. Not that it would work, but . . .
    It did. The tarnished knob turned and she was in.
    Theresa quickly and quietly shut the door behind her. She pressed her ear against it, listening.
    Her heartbeat intensified as the steps grew louder.
    â€œI’m so busted,” she whispered.
    But the footsteps faded.
    Whew! This spy business would kill her yet.
    â€œOkay, Anka—or whoever you are, where do you keep your laptop?” Theresa wondered out loud.
    She scanned the desktop, the floor, the bookshelves. No computer