Chapter Thirty-Two
Red
“Today was a string of unexpected events,” Pied Piper said as he shut the cab door, and they started toward the front entrance of the airport. “I’m sorry you went through all that.”
Red was off balance right now. She’d like a few minutes to adjust to the shit show that had been her day.
She still hadn’t eaten and was hangry.
Knowing that, Red should watch her mouth, but despite the guy’s tone being gentlemanly and concerned, Red bristled at the idea that he didn’t think she could do her job. “Did you think I was looking for sympathy from you?”
“Empathy, maybe? I mean, you’re a human being. Or,” he smiled, “human-like. Perhaps cyborg. In a snap, you went from death’s doorstep to La Femme Nikita.”
“Nikita. Funny.” She looked around to ensure they were out of earshot. “Am I putting off the image that I’m a cutthroat?”
Pied Piper held his eyes wide. “Literally, are you?”
“Cut throats are very messy.” She was tired, and this felt like banter. Like they were teasing each other. Like this was flirty. But flirty took energy.
“Stop,” she said, coming up on her toes and holding his face in hers. She pressed against him, lifting her lips as if she was going to kiss him on the cheek. “Do you want me to keep calling you Pied Piper in my head, or do you want to give me a name?” Rude? She was fine with that.
“Nomad,” he said, pulling his brows together. “Why Pied Piper?”
Red lowered her heels to the ground and took his hand as they walked toward their X again.
Nomad …
She liked it.
“You asked me if I was a cutthroat. I can’t imagine asking you the same question. It’s part of the job, right? You’re handed a mission. You fulfill the mission. Does that violence define you?”
“To some extent, yes,” he said.
“Can a man do his job and go home to his spouse and kiddos to have a barbeque with the neighbors all Mr. Suburbia?”
“Not very effectively, honestly. Just look at the divorce rate in our respective fields.”
She wore his button-down shirt over her outfit, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and her hair in her face. She should look different enough, though she’d been cleared by security, and she shouldn’t be sucking up anyone’s attention.
And the T-shirt he’d worn under the shirt he’d handed her fit him very well.
“Some marriages survive. How do you think they can do that?” He squeezed her hand, released it to reach for the door, and held it wide for her.
Once through, Red adjusted her bag onto her shoulder, accepting the arm he offered her. Why had she jumped right into talking about marriage and divorces? Who does that?
She leaned heavily on it like an old woman with arthritic feet.
Red would admit to exhaustion. And for once, she understood the allure of a man sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bedroom—but to sleep. She wasn’t used to thoughts like these and wondered if her brain had shrunk in the dehydration of her bout of typhoid fever.
After a few steps, Nomad reached around her waist and held her tightly to him, supportively.
Their strides lined up beautifully, and they walked together easily.
“How can someone with our general job description manage a marriage?” he asked as if everyone knew the answer was that it was impossible.
Was it impossible? She took a few more steps. “Good question.” Her arm came up to wrap his waist as well, and she let her ear rest against his bicep. “Both partners would have to understand that their relationship isn’t the stuff of romance novels. Our jobs demand that we manipulate. And that becomes a skillset so natural that perhaps we don’t see how it works in our off-the-clock relationships as well.”
“Unfortunately, I agree.” Nomad stopped in the designated spot and pulled her into his arms.
Red knew it was so he could look over her head and scan. But she also thought he wanted her to rest and that he was being kind. They were going to be a good team. This was all coming naturally. Anyone looking at them would believe they were in a relationship.
With her ear against Nomad’s heart, Red could see a couple approaching, arguing as one pulled their luggage and the other pushed a baby carriage with a screaming toddler.
As they passed, a bag riding on top of a carry-on fell at their feet, spreading the items across the floor.
The man looked up at Nomad and said preemptively, “I’ve got it.”
“Sorry about that,” the woman said.
After they gathered their things, a white envelope lay on the white floor between Red’s feet.
The woman handed the baby a pacifier, and calm was restored as they continued down the corridor.
Nomad had used the time to step on his lace and untie his shoe. Red pointed, “Shoe.”
“Thanks.” He bent to tie it, palmed the envelope, and stood, sliding it into her purse.
Red pulled it back out, opened it, and flipped through her new credit cards, driver’s license, and passport. “Cassandra Kromos.” She blinked at her passport. “Cassandra is kind of rude.” Red frowned.
“You don't like the name? They called you Kromos because My papers are for Nicholi Kromos. You’re playing the role of my wife. In Morocco, it’s against the law for a man and woman who are not married to meet in a hotel room. That would make developing the case much more difficult. It’s easier for us to be married.”
“Who would ask?” This meant that they would be sleeping in the same room. Most likely in the same bed. While Red’s body sent out signals that it was delighted by this particular turn of events, her mind tried to shut that shit down.
“They take your identification when you sign in. They’re required to watch and call it in if there is a breach. Speaking of calling we need to exchange numbers.” He opened his phone and opened his contacts and typed in: CASSIE: wife then added her as his ICE contact.
“Kromos is Greek?” Red asked as she did the same: Nicholi: hubby
He put his hand on his heart. “I speak Greek.”
“Spanish would have made more sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, as a second language, a lot of Moroccans speak Spanish.”
“Our support team is probably trying to give us a language barrier if needed.”
“But I don’t speak Greek,” Red smiled. “How’s your pig Latin?”
“I can get by. I need to get through the security check now, Cassie. My plane will be boarding in the next hour.”
She put her paperwork in her purse, reached for his hand, and they set off.
“Cassie’s better. Thank you. So if I have to be Cassandra, why couldn't you be Sisyphus?” She looked up at him with a half-smile so he’d know she was teasing him. “You out there pushing that rock up the mountainside, and it tumbling back down … Doesn't it sometimes feel that way when we go on missions? We just do the work and then return to the starting point.” She lifted her purse strap and ducked under the loop so it settled across her body instead of sliding down her arm.
Nomad was moving along next to her with an easy stride, not breathing harder, not misting with sweat, and probably his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest. Red would like to blame her body's reaction on her recent illness and exertion, but she knew that was a lie. She wanted to get this man on her own and see if the old saying was true about knowing how well a man performed in bed by his skill at dancing. If the Viennese ball was any indication, it would be luxurious.
“Here we are.” Nomad turned once they’d reached the back of the line. “When you get into Marrakesh tomorrow, call me, okay?”
They were belly to belly. “I can do that.” She smiled up at him.
“Good.” He brushed her hair from her face. “Be safe, sweetheart. I love you.”
Love? He was just in character.
Red could be in character, too.
She raised on her toes, and, with his face between her hands, she kissed him.
It was not the kiss she wanted to give him but a see-you-soon wifey kiss.
But still, it made her lips buzz awake.
And it was harder than anticipated to turn and walk away.