Sake Bomb (7 page)

“A couple months without me and you find new
eye candy, Phil? Did your marriage proposal mean nothing?” Her mood
turned from mock anger to mock distress. “I mean, sure you didn’t
get me a ring, but still…I thought…I thought we really had
something…” A theatrical sigh and Kizzie lowered the binocs.

Phil’s mouth twitched. “Don’t know what
you’re talking about, darlin’.” He checked his watch and then his
attention went back out the window.

“Hottie Mc’Hot Mama you keep checkin’ out,
ten o’clock. Don’t pretend you don’t see her; just makes the end of
our short engagement all the more hurtful. I’ll have to cancel the
cake and flowers…and just what will I tell our guests?” Gasping,
she touched the back of her hand to her forehead, earning a
chuckle.

Lenses up again, Kizzie gave the woman the
once-over: Middle Eastern or North African descent with a little
something else mixed in, though what and from where Kizzie couldn’t
be certain. Not so much petite as svelte, with a poise discernible
even at a distance. Olive skin, strong nose and thick, shaped brows
over wide eyes all properly proportioned in a heart-shaped face.
Short onyx hair styled in chic finger waves hugged her scalp. Not
everyone could pull off vintage Hollywood starlet, but this woman
owned it. A regal air surrounded her—either from old money or
married into it. Probably smelled it, too. Some subtle perfume
squeezed from a rare flower, dainty and expensive. An aroma so
light only the faintest hint lingered after she breezed by.

The woman dipped her chin.

“So you go for the model types, huh?”

“You could have been a model.”

“Flattering as that deflection is, I
couldn’t.” Kizzie patted her belly with both hands. “Me likes me
food. And you can’t save the world strutting the catwalk.”

Phil’s head swiveled toward her for the
second time since she’d been in the car, and he set the tablet on
the dash. “That why you joined the CIA? Save the world?”

“Hell no.” She scrunched up her face. “My
credentials get me a discount at the Java Hut
and
let me be
a complete badass. Win-win.”

Phil shifted his burly frame in a seat that
would have been spacious for anyone else, training his dark shades
on her. “Apart from a nickel off your caffeine fix, why’d you
become an active field agent, Kizzie? Why not do a stint at an
embassy somewhere or stick to the halls of Langley, be a little
safer?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Protect my country
from the likes of Xan—”

“Don’t regurgitate the bullshit they fed you
from the training manual at The Farm. We’re closer than that. A few
minutes ago there was cake and guests and a honeymoon in the
Maldives. You can be straight with me.”

“The Maldives?” He nodded sincerely and
Kizzie smirked. “Swanky…. Nice to know I can rely on your
upstanding
moral certitude, handsome, but I’m being straight
with you. The pay is lousy, zero fame—unless I fail or flip, of
course—but somebody’s gotta do it. People like Xander hell-bent
on—”

“Do you realize you’ve mentioned him three
times,” Phil cut in, “when
we’re
going to the
Maldives
?” His deep voice dropped an octave. “Easy to
forget, isn’t it? That you’re on two different sides? Xander’s a
face for everything a good agent like you is fighting, but deep
down, I bet you think about him a lot. Wonder how he takes his
coffee, his favorite color.”

She snorted inelegantly and didn’t care.
“Couldn’t be more wrong, slick. And I’m offended you think I’m so
transparent.” Kizzie sighed. “I already want a divorce….”

“Not with your job. With your job you’re
stormy weather. I understand; I’m something of a hurricane myself.
Gotta be to do what people like you and I have to do…. But with X,”
his head twisted back and forth slowly, and his voice softened,
“you’re blue skies on a sunny day, Kizzie.”

“I’m a typhoon no matter the occasion, and
far more interested in
your
favorite color.”

“Fuchsia.”

“Bullshit.”

“Periwinkle?” Lips tilting a grin, Phil
pulled out of her space, shifting his view back to the café.

Kizzie reached for the box of chocolates
Phil gave her for their “weekend getaway.” The good stuff, too,
from a shop in Bruges, according to the details on the package. He
even scrawled “Handsome” on the card, the goob. Phil would be a
hard nut to crack, but if she wanted to get useful info on Xander,
she’d have to try. Breaching the top on the package, she surveyed
the options while working out a plan of attack in her head.

“What’s your exit strategy?” Phil asked,
beating her to the punch and throwing her off guard at the same
time. She frowned; he faced her.

“I’m lost.”

“You’re not going to help find Harvey and
the let Xander keep it. You’ve said as much in the last ten
minutes.”

“A distant bridge—”

“But still a bridge, and you’re both
approaching it. Xander won’t budge and you won’t back down. A bull
in a showdown with a jackass.”

“Ugh…Dibs on being the bull…”

“There’s bound to be a fight, and I’d rather
not see this get messy.”

“Queasy stomach?” Kizzie smirked, then bit
into a truffle.

Phil cracked a smile of his own. “No. Just
think…” He stared at her a long moment, as though struggling to
work out what he would say. “Way I see it, you’ve got two options,
sweetheart. Stay or go.”

Huh? Was Phil trying to flip her? Did he
miss the ‘somebody’s gotta do it’ portion of the show?

“Staying’s tricky,” he said somberly,
darting a glance over his shoulder, then back at her. “Staying
means leaving’s not an option, probably ever. You sever all ties to
your team, and you’re one of his.”

What kind of ridiculous…? She had
one
option. This was one job, a fair trade. Not to mention she had a
career to get back to. A career involving sanctioned missions and
not working
with
criminals. A career she’d already been
foolish enough to put in jeopardy twice now.

“Going is even trickier,” Phil continued.
“Xander’s a charming sonuvabitch. He’s not above using every trick
in the book to…uh…
distract
you from your goal.”

Kizzie’s mouth went wide with surprise. “Did
you just violate a man law? That was a legit cockblock, Phil.”

He chuckled. “And now an angel won’t get his
wings. See the sacrifices I make for you?” He relaxed into the seat
and sighed. “You’re good people, Kizzie. Just don’t want to see you
get hurt. He’s single-minded, calculating, and there’s no competing
with a force like Xander. Once he gets in your head…” Phil tapped
his finger to his temple.

Kizzie mimicked his action. “Steel
vault.”

“Fort Knox has a front door. You’ve got
cracks, scars in the surface…or deeper…. Things you want to keep
hidden.” The pause went long enough to make Kizzie uncomfortable.
Then he shrugged, and the intense moment passed. “Hell, we all do.
You’ll open up, tell him things without meaning to, without saying
anything at all, ‘cause Xander’s carbon monoxide; seeps in
undetected. One day you look up and he’s there,
really
rooted in, and you can’t get him out.”

Her brows squished together, gaze shifting
from one dark lens to the other. Whatever Phil’s angle, Kizzie
didn’t like being back on her heels.

“That what happened to you, Phil? X got
rooted in?” Now
his
brows drew together over the top of his
shades. “Convince you to waste your life playing robbers?”

A broad smile spread on Phil’s face. “You’re
trying to flip me.”

“I’m trying to
help
you, same way
you’re trying to help me. Do you want to do this the rest of your
life, play beta to his alpha? Or maybe you want to find a nice
girl,” she bucked her chin toward the café, “settle down…?

“I can help you get out. X is a mystery to
us, but I’m sure you know that. Give me specs on his operations,
I’ll make it so you don’t have to live always looking over your
shoulder.”

He scratched the stubble on his chin
thoughtfully. “Why wouldn’t I tell X about this offer?”

“For the same reason I won’t tell him about
yours. You need a friend on the outside, I need one in.”

Phil’s face remained impassive, but the
wheels were up there whirring. Kizzie smiled. “I guess you looking
out for me means I have to forgive you for ogling the hot chick.
So,” a dismissive wave, “slate’s wiped clean and we’re back on for
the Maldives. Chocolate?” Phil opened his mouth and she popped a
truffle in. “For the record, Duquesne won’t get anywhere near me.
I’m kinda good at what I do.”

“No doubt about it. But trust me, he’s
better,” Phil assured around the mouthful of gooeyness. He
swallowed and checked his watch. Looked out the window again and
then leaned forward, hand on the key in the ignition. “I need to
know, Kizzie. You staying or going?”

“Why’d you bring this up?”

“I told you. I believe in a level playing
field and I don’t want you to get hurt. Your answer?”

“Going…obviously.” The bottom dropped out of
her stomach and landed somewhere near her toes.

“You’re sure?” When she said nothing more,
Phil pulled his hand from the key. He paused a moment, reached
forward again and then, as though coming to some sort of final,
internal decision, opened his door and stepped out of the car.

“Well, now, where are you going?”

“To talk to the model.” The door slammed
behind him, closing in Kizzie’s incredulous “Cheater!” Phil stood
stone still a moment, and then, with a curt about-face, strode
toward the back of the car.

“The girl’s the other way…” Kizzie spun in
her seat to track him through the rear window. Her heart rate
kicked up a notch as he cleared the trunk, cleared the car parked
behind them, moving purposefully up the street. Her gaze darted to
her surroundings, searching the crevices of the darkening
street.

A set up?

Liking Phil didn’t mean she trusted him. And
all that stay or go business put her spidey-senses on high alert.
Although, there
were
easier ways to kill an agent than
flying her to Paris for a last hurrah.

She settled again on the café where a figure
trailed behind the hostess. The pair zigzagged through the maze of
tables and chairs and then stopped at the back booth. Kizzie
snatched up the binoculars.

Tall, dark, ridiculously sexy.

Xander Duquesne.

The hostess gone, Xander dipped to kiss the
“model” on one cheek and then the other, slid onto the padded bench
she occupied. He extended his arm behind her and she snuggled under
his wing.

Kizzie arched a brow.
Le subbie?

The two chatted over the menus, the woman
looking up at Xander with obvious affection. Something was said and
Xander bobbed his head. The waiter came over; more words exchanged.
Xander passed both leaflets to the man and that’s when Kizzie saw
it.

Gold band.

Left hand.

Fourth finger.

Kizzie’s gaze zipped to the woman beside
Xander, but her hands were in her lap. Or his….

Her mind went haywire half a second, and her
body flushed with heat from toes to scalp. She huffed a breath,
shook her head.

Do your job, agent.

Tapping the button on the binocs snapped a
series of photos of the pair, her focus more on the woman. Kizzie
knew what Xander looked like—wished she could get his face out of
her head, this trembling out of her fingers. The woman, however,
was a new variable and a possible point of exploitation. Mixed up
with the likes of Duquesne, she just might be in a database
somewhere.

The waiter returned and set two demitasse
cups on the table. The charming couple waited a beat for the man to
leave before sipping the steaming contents. Xander bent to whisper
in the woman’s ear; she replied with a giggle and a head toss.

Raspberry-flavored bile rose in Kizzie’s
throat.

At the door eight minutes later, Xander
helped his wife into her coat. Kizzie studied the little slip of a
woman backlit by the cafe. She was…
okay
. Not necessarily
runway material. And now that Kizzie thought about it, the
hairstyle was dated, the dress too tight, and she’d bet money that
perfume was something cloying and over-sweet. What an elderly aunt
poured on by the gallon, stinking up the whole damn house.

“Ugh. This shade of green clashes with your
badass, Kiz.” She shifted her gaze to the woman’s feet. “Cute
shoes, though…”

They came to the street, facing each other
now. Xander’s wife slid her hands up his torso, and they
disappeared beneath his coat. Kizzie stopped herself from making up
snarky dialogue.

She couldn’t lie. Her chest constricted—

—and exploded a moment later when
le
subbie
tugged Xander down and kissed him full on the mouth with
enough heat to melt the chocolate in her lap. The truffle Kizzie
smacked on almost fell from her gaping candy hole. Quintessential
cheesy moment: Paris, the café, and two people sucking face after a
rainfall.

“A fuckin’ postcard…” she muttered.

Xander engulfed the woman in a hug, and
Kizzie grunted.
This
was the “something” Phil needed to do
first. Any moment now Xander would get in the car, reeking of his
wife and looking at Kizzie with… Hell, he wouldn’t look at her with
anything. Whatever happened in Mauritius, whatever he said in
Helsinki and Oman, none of that mattered. Those long, sticky,
stupid
nights in Brazil when she was alone and he’d fill her
thoughts? Imagine her fingers were his? Just her mind playing
tricks on her relatively desperate libido. Okay,
excessively
desperate libido.

Xander would get in the car and they’d drive
off. Period. Soon as Phil got his ass back in the car, the weasel.
Even before the doom and gloom warning about Xander and the
revelation of the li’l Missus, Kizzie had no intention of staying,
even less intention of letting the bossy Dom into her head
or
her pants—the last part might have been a lie. Bottom
line, Phil wasted his time preaching to a pastor.