clearly not an Aide Internationale worker.”
Shit. He couldn’t know. No one could know. She had a vision of her ordered life and structured relationships with her family crumbling under this information.
She held the gun and her other hand up. “Okay, okay. Hang up.”
“Put the gun down first,” he said, jamming the phone back to his ear.
“Okay. It’s down.” She threw it onto the sofa.
He picked it up and checked the safety, then pulled the magazine out, pushing the top round down to check it. It was full. She’d never fired it. Then he put the phone back in his pocket without hanging up. Shit. She’d been fooled by the oldest trick in the book.
“You weren’t calling my father?” she asked, sinking to the now weaponless sofa.
“Nope. I don’t like to report in until I have a full picture. So let’s talk and you can tell me what the fuck you’re doing here, and with luck, this whole little family tale will have me back home before the week’s out.” He sat on the sofa arm and gestured at her with the gun. “Come on, sweetheart. Spill your guts.”
God, she hated him. He looked so cocky, so sure of himself. So unconcerned. Well, fuck that. “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me what you’re doing here.” She suspected that her father had sent him to watch her. Anger pulsed in her like an infection. She was too old to be treated like a child.
“I think you know what I’m doing here. I have the shittiest job in the world. I’ve spent the best part of this year in war zones. Killing bad people, rescuing good. Sometimes getting good guys killed. Protecting people, sometimes protecting bad people. And for the last couple of weeks I’ve had the most boring job in the world: watching a woman with the dullest life, who obviously doesn’t need my protection. And let me tell you this. It was worth my sliced and diced neck just to get off this fucking job. I’m going to tell your father that you don’t need my help, and I will be out of here.” He cocked his head and looked out the window. “Somewhere warm. Somewhere I can get drinks without vodka in them. Somewhere the women are in bikinis, not full-body sheepskin.” He looked at her coat on its hook. “It’s not an attractive look, you know.”
So he was a dick as well. Not the smooth, suave, handsome man she’d met the night before. That had been an act. She made a face. She’d had sex with him.
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been pulling that face when I think about last night too,” he said, as if he were discussing the weather. He shrugged. “For me it’s an occupational hazard. Not sure what it was for you, though.” He grinned.
“Pretty horrible. Desperation. It was you or Hans, and he couldn’t leave the restaurant until much later. I wanted to get to bed early. I could tell you’d be quick.” She gave him a fake sympathetic smile and cocked her head. “You know they have drugs for that kind of…problem now, don’t you?”
His eyes narrowed. Strike.
“Tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here,” he said.
She tucked her legs under her as if she were having a chat with a girlfriend. “You go first.”
“I’m the one with the phone and the gun. And the temper. You go first.”
She was strictly not allowed to tell anyone she was a CIA field operative. Not her family, and certainly not random people whom she happened to have sex with. Or people who hold her at gunpoint. “I’ve got nothing to tell you.”
In the silence that fell between them, a tone sounded. A beep. A loud and insistent bleeping. For a second she had no idea what it was. Was it something he had on him? No, not judging by his frown. Her eyes traced the room and alighted on the shopping and her handbag still on the floor. Her phone never bleeped like that.
Oh. Holy motherfucking shit. She knew exactly what it was. Her eyes met his, which she knew did not reflect the horror in hers. She was going to have to come clean.
Emergency
Shit. He couldn’t know. No one could know. She had a vision of her ordered life and structured relationships with her family crumbling under this information.
She held the gun and her other hand up. “Okay, okay. Hang up.”
“Put the gun down first,” he said, jamming the phone back to his ear.
“Okay. It’s down.” She threw it onto the sofa.
He picked it up and checked the safety, then pulled the magazine out, pushing the top round down to check it. It was full. She’d never fired it. Then he put the phone back in his pocket without hanging up. Shit. She’d been fooled by the oldest trick in the book.
“You weren’t calling my father?” she asked, sinking to the now weaponless sofa.
“Nope. I don’t like to report in until I have a full picture. So let’s talk and you can tell me what the fuck you’re doing here, and with luck, this whole little family tale will have me back home before the week’s out.” He sat on the sofa arm and gestured at her with the gun. “Come on, sweetheart. Spill your guts.”
God, she hated him. He looked so cocky, so sure of himself. So unconcerned. Well, fuck that. “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me what you’re doing here.” She suspected that her father had sent him to watch her. Anger pulsed in her like an infection. She was too old to be treated like a child.
“I think you know what I’m doing here. I have the shittiest job in the world. I’ve spent the best part of this year in war zones. Killing bad people, rescuing good. Sometimes getting good guys killed. Protecting people, sometimes protecting bad people. And for the last couple of weeks I’ve had the most boring job in the world: watching a woman with the dullest life, who obviously doesn’t need my protection. And let me tell you this. It was worth my sliced and diced neck just to get off this fucking job. I’m going to tell your father that you don’t need my help, and I will be out of here.” He cocked his head and looked out the window. “Somewhere warm. Somewhere I can get drinks without vodka in them. Somewhere the women are in bikinis, not full-body sheepskin.” He looked at her coat on its hook. “It’s not an attractive look, you know.”
So he was a dick as well. Not the smooth, suave, handsome man she’d met the night before. That had been an act. She made a face. She’d had sex with him.
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been pulling that face when I think about last night too,” he said, as if he were discussing the weather. He shrugged. “For me it’s an occupational hazard. Not sure what it was for you, though.” He grinned.
“Pretty horrible. Desperation. It was you or Hans, and he couldn’t leave the restaurant until much later. I wanted to get to bed early. I could tell you’d be quick.” She gave him a fake sympathetic smile and cocked her head. “You know they have drugs for that kind of…problem now, don’t you?”
His eyes narrowed. Strike.
“Tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here,” he said.
She tucked her legs under her as if she were having a chat with a girlfriend. “You go first.”
“I’m the one with the phone and the gun. And the temper. You go first.”
She was strictly not allowed to tell anyone she was a CIA field operative. Not her family, and certainly not random people whom she happened to have sex with. Or people who hold her at gunpoint. “I’ve got nothing to tell you.”
In the silence that fell between them, a tone sounded. A beep. A loud and insistent bleeping. For a second she had no idea what it was. Was it something he had on him? No, not judging by his frown. Her eyes traced the room and alighted on the shopping and her handbag still on the floor. Her phone never bleeped like that.
Oh. Holy motherfucking shit. She knew exactly what it was. Her eyes met his, which she knew did not reflect the horror in hers. She was going to have to come clean.
Emergency
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