Chapter 4
Marielle wondered if Omar could hear the loud thump, thump, thump of her galloping heart under the silk shell.
She removed the compact from the gold and cream clutch and opened it.
As she reapplied her deep rose lipstick, the little lighted mirror set in the lid began to flicker.
She frowned and almost closed the case before she realized the flickering wasn’t random.
She stared at the light, willing the pattern to materialize.
When it did, a burst of laughter escaped her lips.
“You okay?” Omar asked.
Bruno’s gaze rose to the rearview mirror, met her eyes, then slid back to the road. She snapped the compact case closed.
“Um, yeah. Just giddy—from the bubbly, I guess.”
“Mmm.” He eyed her, unconvinced.
She smiled broadly and hummed under her breath. She’d tell him, but not now. Later. Well, maybe. She trusted him. Of course she did.
But the flashing light was a coded message from Olivia. Not from the Potomac team, but from her friend. Liv had used neither the covert communication device Potomac had provided nor the agreed-upon cipher for this mission.
She must have charmed someone on the technology team—Cal, most likely—into wiring the makeup compact as a second covcom unit.
Snarky Cal McCloud famously liked no one—with the single exception of Olivia Santos.
And she’d used the iterative cipher they’d devised to send each other personal messages all those years ago during their initial agent training with the CIA.
The message wasn’t officially related to the mission, either, Marielle reasoned.
Once deciphered, the flashes spelled out what, like it’s hard?
An obvious reference to the classic chick flick Legally Blonde and the main character’s bold, but ultimately warranted, confidence that she could crush something she wasn’t qualified to do.
Olivia was telling Marielle that she had this, and her friends had faith in her. It was an expression of sisterhood.
So there was no reason to share this message with Omar. And really, why mention the compact covcom at all? There was a covcom sewn into the lining of his roller bag, easily accessed with a few snips of fabric.
By the time Bruno brought the car to a smooth stop in front of Kusa, a silver crescent moon hung over the jewel-box restaurant and Marielle had convinced herself she was completely in the clear ethically.
Bruno opened her door, and she emerged from the Mercedes with her shoulders pulled back and a playful smile on her lips.
Omar joined her under the restaurant’s canopy while Bruno arranged with the valet to leave his station to take care of their matching suitcases.
“Enjoy your evening, Mr. and Mrs. Irfan,” he called before returning to the car.
The valet led them past two bodyguards, one stationed on either side of the door.
If they were trying to be discreet, they were doing a terrible job.
They both stood stiffly, as if they were guarding Buckingham Palace rather than the entrance to a small, chef-owned restaurant.
Their dark suit jackets were tight enough that the bulge of their shoulder holsters was evident.
They exchanged a look as they followed the valet inside, where he handed them off to the host before whisking their bags away to secure in a coat closet.
“Welcome to Kusa,” the host said brightly.
A fair blonde with pale blue eyes, she spoke lightly accented English.
If that wasn’t enough to tag her as one of Mallorca’s many German ex-pats, the name plate on the host stand read ‘Heidi Müller.’ Her expression fell slightly as she continued, “I’m afraid your table isn’t ready yet. ”
“Oh, that’s no problem. We know we’re a bit on the early side,” Omar reassured her with a grin. “We’re just so excited about Peruvian fusion cuisine. We’ve heard such wonderful things from our friends.”
“Maybe we could have a cocktail at the bar while we wait?” Marielle chimed in. “I’ve been told we have to try the Vermut Mutaner.”
Heidi smiled warmly, but her eyes flicked over Marielle’s shoulder to the glassed-in bar to the left of the entrance, elevated by three wide steps and her smile faltered. “Um … yes, the vermut is divine. There’s a semi-private gathering in the bar. I’m not certain ….”
Omar placed a warm hand on the small of Marielle’s back, and they turned to follow the host’s gaze.
Two more black-suited, expressionless men stood on the top step, just outside the bar.
Beyond the guards, a four-top on the far end of the room was occupied by two couples.
Two men clad in linen pants and polo shirts sat at the blond wood bar, whiskey glasses in hand.
“Please wait here one moment,” Heidi said before traipsing across the entrance and up the stairs to the bar.
Marielle expected her to consult with the bodyguards. Instead she gave them a short nod, then pushed open the door and stepped into the bar, where she approached the two men on stools.
“Huh.” Omar’s expression of mild surprise echoed her own feeling.
“Are those guys the last two bodyguards? Maybe someone taught them how to blend in?” she suggested.
He shook his head. “No, standard procedure for a six-man detail would be two out front, two keeping the high-value individual in sight, and two out back to prevent an attack from behind. Guaranteed there are two more, probably getting in the way in the kitchen and mooching food under the guise of tasting for poison.”
“Sounds like the voice of experience speaking,” she teased.
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
She was mid-laugh when he leaned down and brushed a feather-light kiss on her exposed neck. Her skin tingled under his mouth and she instinctively rose on her toes to loop her arms around his neck.
“The men at the bar just looked over. Wanted to make sure they see newlywed lovebirds,” he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair.
“Right,” she managed.
His hand, no longer on her back, rested on her hip, pulling her close. She arched her back to see his face. His eyes were dark, liquid pools of desire. She shivered and tried to remember how to swallow as she gazed, transfixed, at him.
The clatter of shoes against tile broke whatever wild spell had fallen over her as Heidi hurrying toward them.
“Thank you for your patience. The party who reserved the bar graciously agreed that we couldn’t deprive our Canadian visitors of our delicious vermut. So, please go enjoy a cocktail while you wait for your table. Lucia will take good care of you.” Relief washed over her face.
“Wonderful,” Marielle said in a voice that was nearly as shaky as her legs.
“Thanks so much, Heidi,” Omar said, his voice disappointingly normal.
Omar took her hand and led her up the stairs to the bar, breezing past the bodyguards as if they weren’t there. She lowered her gaze awkwardly as they passed the men. Looking directly at them without addressing them seemed incredibly rude, even for the obscenely wealthy Margaux Irfan.
The moment the glass door swung closed behind them, the hum of conversation, clatter of china and crystal, and piped-in music from the dining room faded.
In its place, the warm bass and the downtempo beat of island chill house music filled the space.
As the smooth rhythm washed over her, Marielle shook off the response—physical and emotional—that Omar’s lips hot against her bare skin had stirred up.
She could play the part of a new bride wildly in love with her husband.
What, like it’s hard?
She smiled a secret smile and nestled into Omar’s side as they neared the bar.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Irfan,” the rosy-cheeked bartender called in greeting.
“Please, it’s Oscar and Margaux,” Omar told her. “And you must be Lucia.”
The woman dipped her head. “That’s me. I’m told your wife would like a Vermut Muter Blanco, yes?”
“Please.”
“How would you like that?”
Marielle pulled up the briefing book in her memory. “On the rocks, with a slice of orange.”
The bartender smiled her approval. “And for you, Oscar?”
“I’ll have the same.” He gestured toward the table furthest from Idris and his companions. “Could we sit over there?”
Marielle felt more than saw the men at the bar stiffen at the question. The one closest to her leaned over and patted the stool next to him. “Why don’t y’all sit here with us? We’re your downstairs neighbors so to speak. Robbie here and I, we’re from the U. S. of A.”
She smiled coolly.
Omar furrowed his brow. “No disrespect to you or your friend. But this trip is a romantic getaway for us. We’d prefer the small table by the window.” He turned his attention back to Lucia. “You understand, right? So we can gaze longingly into each other’s eyes.”
“And play footsie under the table,” Marielle added with a giggle, slipping back into character.
The men at the bar guffawed. It wasn’t that funny.
She appraised them. Despite their casual attire and back-slapping friendliness there was something off about them.
They were too fit, too clean-cut, with matching Ivy League crew cuts, tapered in the back and long enough to style on top.
One Black, one white. But they may as well have been twins.
They may not be Idris Mahmoud’s bodyguards, but they weren’t two random tourists, either.
Beside her, Omar worked his jaw as if he was doing the same mental calculations.
The one called Robbie spread his hands wide, “Come on, now. Let us buy you lovebirds a drink.”
Marielle was about to demur when a roar of laughter from Idris’s table cut through the music.
She turned to see Idris bent double, holding his stomach while he laughed.
Next to him, an olive-skinned brunette with large almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones smiled reluctantly.
She was elegant, almost regal, in a pale pink ruffled crepe wrap dress with a high-low hem and a wide collar.
Across the table, a redhead who was a dead ringer for the singer Poppy Jones was standing up, smacking her own admittedly impressive butt with one hand while gesturing wildly with the other, evidently recounting one heck of a story.
Her rainbow-sequined minidress shimmered and bounced with each smack.
Marielle squinted. Wait. Was that Poppy Jones? It couldn’t be. Could it?
Before her brain had a chance to fully process the possibility, the man sitting next to Possibly Poppy reached over and gave her bottom a slap of his own.
Then he pounded the table, throwing his head back to laugh.
Marielle’s attention shifted from the woman to the man next to her, and her stomach flipped over. There was no doubt who he was.
Bradford Hampton, the prodigal son of Vice President Jonah Hampton, snorted and pulled the woman down on his lap. She screamed, a pitch-perfect soprano note. Yep, that was Poppy.
She turned back to the men at the bar with sudden understanding.
They were Brad’s Secret Service Detail. She and Omar were being sent onto a ship with six armed guards, two Secret Service agents, the son of an oligarch, the hard-partying son of the sitting Vice President, a musical superstar, and the quiet woman in the wrap dress.
The flipping Secret Service.
“Merde,” she whispered.