Chapter 3
The door opened to a small entryway. A sunny living room sat to the right, furnished with a suede couch, pale wood end tables, and a pile of cream-colored throws and pillows, which looked like clouds.
I took it in with an approving nod, noting Wallace had taken care to supply the caliber of furniture fit for the neighborhood. No flat-box anything in Lauren Thomas’s place.
I turned to my left and saw a kitchen with a high-top dining table, a hutch hanging with colorful coffee mugs, stainless steel appliances, and a fridge I hoped contained food.
I dropped my backpack and turned to my guest.
He closed the front door behind him and gave me a stiff smile.
I had taken in his height on the doorstep, but up close and inside, the size of his body beneath his suit became apparent.
His shoulders strained the slim lines; the fabric left little mystery about the shape of his biceps.
He was large and strong and probably looked fantastic in a tight T-shirt.
The angles of his face, though sharp, landed easy on the eyes: knives for cheekbones, ski-slope nose, eyes the color of a foggy day at the beach.
And lips. Lips that made me wonder what one kiss would feel like, real or not.
The only break from the symmetry was a small scar near his jaw.
A jagged slash that looked like it had been deep once upon a time.
As I stared at him with curiosity blossoming somewhere deep in my belly, I noted he was not gazing around the space like someone would upon visiting another’s home, which more likely than not meant he had visited this home before.
He took a step toward me, and I held my ground though reflex told me to step back. I wanted the upper hand.
“Hi,” he said, sounding more uncertain than I expected for a man of his size. “Sorry about that out there. I didn’t mean to slip in front of your neighbor. I’m not your real estate agent. I’m—”
“I know who you are.”
He paused and tilted his head like he really wasn’t sure. “How?” His jacket gently flapped when he adjusted his bag, and I saw my chance to really take the upper hand.
I stepped forward, reducing the space between us and feeling the warmth of his body. Another whiff of his clean scent hit me, and I wondered what I smelled like after donning clothes stuffed in a backpack and taking a cross-country flight.
“Well, first, you called me by a name that until eight hours ago was hidden in a locker only two people know the combination to. So, you either intercepted some highly classified information, or you’re already privy to said information.”
He blinked long lashes at me, looking legitimately surprised, and I felt a pang of tenderness at his innocence.
And then I dove on my opportunity.
Without dropping his eyes, I reached my hand out to his hip.
Quicker than a lightning crack, I breached the warm pocket of air stuck between his jacket and torso.
My fingers tingled when they brushed the smooth fabric of his shirt then closed around cold metal.
My heart hit my ribcage in a thrilling surge both at what I was doing and at the fact I was so close to him.
Before he knew what had hit him, I pulled his gun from its holster and held it between us, pointed at the ceiling.
“And then there’s your gun.” I gave him a sly grin. “Standard DSA issue,” I said, glancing at the markings and happy to see I was right. In truth, I hadn’t been one-hundred percent sure until that moment.
He sucked in a breath and reached for it like a kid grasping at a loose balloon string.
I yanked it away and handily released the clip with a few clicks. I knew how to handle a gun long before I became the DSA’s errand girl. I held the disassembled parts in each hand with a smug grin. “What, did you graduate the Academy last week? Gotta be quicker than that, ace.”
His dagger cheekbones spotted red, and the soft curve of his lips went thin and colorless.
My smile grew bigger. “And I also know you’re left-handed, but now I’m just showing off.” I nodded at the holster on his left hip and handed him the pieces of his weapon. I brushed my hands together and pivoted toward the kitchen.
The sharp click of a firearm being reloaded rang out behind me. His footsteps quickly followed.
“You can’t tamper with DSA equipment,” he said, flustered.
I swung open the fridge and found a modest offering: milk, butter, something green and leafy in the crisper, apples, a brick of cheese, and a dozen eggs. I reached for the cheese and an apple, then started opening cabinets, looking for the pantry.
“If that is actually a crime, I suggest you keep a closer eye on your equipment, so you don’t get us both in trouble.”
I caught his frown from across the room.
He holstered his gun and placed his messenger bag on the table.
In the third cabinet I tried, I found some pantry staples: rice, beans, canned soup, cooking oil, and what I had come for: a box of crackers.
I dumped a pile on a plate, found a knife, and carried the first meal I had had since New York to my new dining table.
The man in the suit, who still didn’t have a name, cautiously watched me slice the cheese.
The pointy little paring knife was hardly longer than my finger, but I enjoyed the look on his face at the sight of it in my hand.
Just for fun, I deftly twirled it like a small propeller and then sliced the apple with five quick cuts in as many seconds, and let it fall open like a star on the plate.
I picked up a wedge and bit it with a chunk of cheese.
“Want some?” I asked, pushing the plate toward him.
He stared at me both like I was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen and like he was a little afraid.
“When is Wallace getting here?” I asked around a slice of apple.
The pause was not long, but it was palpable, and it shot a bolt of concern straight up my spine. Wallace always met me at a new job. Every time. Landing in the gorgeous neighborhood already felt off, and now his absence had me feeling like I was standing on a tilted floor.
The man stuck out his hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
I chewed and swallowed my apple slice. “By foot do you mean that I disarmed you in under ten seconds and then made you a snack?”
His frustration was obvious and damn it, if it wasn’t charming.
I sensed a balance in him, a softness and a strength, and I hazarded a guess based on his size and shape coupled with the way he was trying to look authoritative but coming off endearing instead that he struggled to keep that balance from tipping too far in one direction.
“I’m Agent Bray. Calvin Bray.”
“Nice to meet you, Cal,” I said, trying to keep my cool over the strange situation. “I assume you know my real name, but you’ll be calling me Lauren for the duration of this flight, wherever it is we are headed.” I plopped another chunk of cheese in my mouth. “And again, I ask, where’s Wallace?”
My feigned indifference to a new identity bounced off him like a rubber ball. His eyes softened. “This must be hard for you. Moving around all the time.”
A fiery lump lodged in my throat and almost made me choke.
He held my gaze with a look I never once saw in Wallace’s eyes—in anyone’s, really, perhaps save my mother, but those memories were distant and clouded at best. No one ever took the time to care.
And now this agent fresh from the Academy with bottomless eyes and kiss-me lips was staring at me like he wanted to read my diary.
I forced the cheese down with a painful swallow and smiled.
“This must be your first time working with a CI. We can’t afford to have feelings.
” I took the knife to the cheese block with an aggressive whack, which made him lean back.
“Speaking of business, are you going to tell me why I’m here? And where Wallace is?”
Memory of my phone call in the small hours of the night came back to me. The whistling wind, that cracking sound, the hitch in Wallace’s breath. The way he’d called me Erin. All of it was off, and pairing it with his absence had me fighting to hide my nerves.
“You have been passed to me,” Bray said.
A rustle called my attention to the files he had spread on the table.
I had drifted off thinking about my phone call.
I watched his long fingers separate sheets of paper with an elegance that made me wonder if he played an instrument.
Probably something classy like the piano or violin.
Try as I might, I could not picture Calvin Bray holding a guitar or drumsticks.
“I’ve been passed to you? I’ve been with Wallace for ten years; I don’t get passed to anyone, especially not some rookie.”
Bray bristled, then flipped through his papers like he was searching for patience. “I got word yesterday you would be arriving here, and I was to meet you. Please, if you have a seat, I’ll fill you in on this case.”
I arched a brow at him and pointedly did not sit.
“Fine,” he said with a matching arched brow.
He spread the files to show a smattering of DMV records photocopied above bullet point lists: occupation, income, known medical conditions.
I had seen it all before; the CliffsNotes summary of people’s lives.
The DSA could get its hands on pretty much anything.
“This is one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in this area. The families are like local royalty,” Bray continued.
“They sit on boards, work for the major tech companies, lead community groups.” He placed the photo of a gorgeous woman below a photo of an equally attractive man and pointed at them.
“Melanie and Scott Browning. He’s a lead software engineer; she’s a stay-at-home mom. ”
The couple glorified suburban chic, even in their driver’s license photos. Melanie smiled like a beauty queen, her hair rolling in golden waves. Scott looked like a prom king.