Chapter 6 #3
Six hours and the entire Atlantic Ocean later, she had regrets.
John sat in the jump seat across from her with Bijou the barker in his lap, while she tended Bonbon the biter.
They’d calmed the dogs with constant belly rubs, the same kind they gave Ruckus when exuberant neighbors set off fireworks on the Fourth of July and New Year’s.
“Sorry,” she mouthed.
John shook his head and looked away.
Shame and guilt slithered inside Vivian. The love of her life was disgusted with her, and she couldn’t blame him. Not one bit. She’d lied to him about almost everything and had convinced herself it was the right thing to do.
Because agency rules. His safety. Her cover.
More lies.
The truth was…falling in love was terrifying and she’d used her alias as emotional Kevlar. If John dumped Jane Davis, she could tell herself he hadn’t rejected the real her. Ego protected. But he’d stayed and entwined himself so deeply in her heart she couldn’t tell where she ended, and he began.
A jostle startled her out of her swimming thoughts.
As did Bonbon nipping her hand.
“This is your flight captain.” Konnie called over their shoulder. “It’s a beautiful day in the seaside city of Casablanca. Local time is 2:00 p.m. Today’s high will be twenty-six degrees Celsius with eighty percent humidity. Thanks for flying Personal Favor Airways.”
After taxiing down the runway, they crated the Pomeranians.
“This make us square, Vivian?” Konnie asked.
“No,” she said. “Now I owe you one.”
“I’ll take it.” Konnie grinned. “Good luck with this one, John. She’s a pistol.”
“I’m aware,” he said without a hint of a smile.
Between her dry throat and clenched stomach, she felt like she’d swallowed cement. But she’d figure this out, too, and win back his affection. They were meant for each other, and nothing bonded people better than travel.
And light espionage.
Konnie handed them noise-blocking earmuffs. “When we pop the door, a luggage truck’ll take you straight to the terminal.”
“Thanks, Konnie,” she said as she slipped on the earmuffs.
With a wink, they shot Vivian a finger gun and mouthed, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
Groan. Like she hadn’t heard that one before.
The cargo door popped open with a whoosh, and humid air swirled through the cabin.
As she stood, she regretted not pregaming the flight with pain meds.
Between the air duct crawl, hand-to-hand combat, hustling across town, and sitting for hours in a jump seat soothing a prickly Pomeranian, her muscles protested.
Judging by John’s stiff gait, he was in the same situation.
The luggage truck driver waved, and she and John hopped on the back. After he ferried them to the terminal, they handed him the earmuffs. They dipped inside the terminal’s welcome cool dryness. Finally, familiar territory.
“Follow me.” She slithered through the streaming crowds. Some travelers wore Western-style clothes, while others wore long loose robes. She nodded toward a glossy wood door up ahead. “That’s our pit stop.”
She withdrew her plastic membership card and dipped it in the scanner.
The lock tumbled. She pushed the door open, delivering them into a calm, hushed oasis.
Businessmen had twisted modern red, purple and beige barrel chairs to enjoy the back wall’s unobstructed tarmac view.
Personally, she preferred the art above the buffet.
She’d convinced the manager to purchase her artist Amina Hassan’s work.
The oversized painting added much-needed vibrancy to the space.
She led John past the prayer room and to the stairs at the back.
“Bienvenue au Salon Rubis,” the front desk clerk greeted them in French. “How may I help you feel better today?”
Unless this attendant had a time machine, she’d have to settle for the bag she’d stashed here.
She slid her key card across the counter. “My suitcase, please?”
The attendant inserted the card into the reader. “Ah, Ms. Davis.” She switched to French-Moroccan-accented English. “Would you and your guest care for your usual spa treatment?”
She ignored the tension wafting from John.
“Yes, please.”
“One moment.” The attendant slipped into the storage room behind the desk, then reappeared with Vivian’s Zero Halliburton black aluminum carry-on. “Here you are. You’ll be in room three today.”
“Thank you,” she said.
John reached for her bag. “I’ve got this.”
Vivian considered resisting. She shouldn’t receive relationship privileges if they weren’t actually in one. But she ached, and it was heavy.
Let him wheel the thing. It was a small sign that not all hope was lost.
At door three, she knocked, then entered the low-lit room.
“Helluva time for a massage,” John said.
“We’re not getting a massage.” She sat on the padded table. “I have an arrangement here. Can you lift the suitcase up on the table?”
He thumped the bag next to her.
“Thanks.” She rotated the numbers to her three-digit code—620, their anniversary—and popped the case wide. A tidy collection of dirham, prepaid debit and phone cards, a tablet, and breathable layers of clothing more suitable to the local climate waited inside.
“Here.” She handed him an outfit. “Change into those.”
He stared at the pile. “Why did you pack men’s clothes?”
“In case I travel with a man,” she said. “Unless I’m taking a routine action with known players, the agency prefers sending two agents into the field. Couples raise less suspicion.”
“How often do you—” John closed his eyes. “Never mind.”
“You can ask, John. Part of the reason I waited to tell you about my job is you’d naturally want to ask a lot of questions. Not all the answers are reassuring, so it’s not a great early relationship conversation. But we’re a year in and have ripped off the bandage. Ask away.”
He waved her off. “No, I’m good.”
“I’m ready if you change your mind.” She winced as she attempted to unzip her jumpsuit.
“Turn around,” John said, then hissed. “Jesus Christ. You’ve got bruises everywhere.”
“Do I?” She glanced over her shoulder.
“Yes.” He slammed through the cabinets. “There’s no medicine here. It’s all lemongrass essential oils and—aha. Tiger Balm.”
“I’m fine.” She gingerly wriggled into her balloon pants. “I’m a fast healer.”
He gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “Stop arguing. Stand still.”
John’s rare bossiness emerged when she wasn’t taking care of herself. Skipping meals because she was too busy, not drinking enough water, trying to work long hours despite a massive head cold that turned out to be walking pneumonia.
After the plastic snap of a bottle’s lid, John smoothed the nose-awakening cool cream on her back. A few tears she’d been holding back escaped. Camphor and menthol were partially responsible, but in her exhausted state, John’s kindness reduced her to a messy bitch.
Because it drove home what she’d lost.