Chapter Forty-Nine
Miami, Florida
Mia was sprawled on a white leather sectional in her two-bedroom condo, trying to catch her breath.
She glanced at Henry, who had an arm draped across her naked stomach.
His chest was rising and falling slowly, his eyes were half closed with a smug but certainly well-earned grin.
He was, she had to admit, a hell of a lot better than Maximilian Kross. Not that the bar had been high.
Her condo was located on the twenty-eighth floor of a tower overlooking Biscayne Bay. The unit was hers, and fully paid for. The large patio doors were open, letting in the warm, humid air of the late afternoon. She didn’t mind the heat.
To Mia, Miami was home. Spanish was spoken everywhere, the city’s energy was contagious, and the summer heat reminded her that she was alive.
She loved everything about Miami. Its pastel buildings, its pulsing nightlife, and even its chaotic traffic.
There were also a few bars and hotels in South Beach where she’d gotten regular piano gigs over the years, which she’d found was a good way to stay grounded between assignments.
She looked at her sleek black baby grand, which sat in one corner of her living room.
The piano was polished to a mirrored sheen with its lid propped open.
It was too bad Operations had canceled her events in Budapest and Dubrovnik, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.
Because she’d turned off the air-conditioning, she could hear the whine of a pair of Jet Skis as they raced across the bay.
The faint noise seemed to jolt Henry back from his reverie.
He got up, muttered something about making smoothies, then padded off toward the kitchen.
She watched him go, her eyes following the sway of his bare, muscular backside as he moved through the apartment.
Damn . . . he’s hot.
She stayed where she was, naked, with one leg flung over the back of the couch, her phone balanced on her chest. Her encrypted line buzzed softly in her earbud. She tapped it.
“How are you?” came the voice of Charles Mpassi, or Operations to the assets who dealt with him regularly. “Hope you’re enjoying your vacation.”
“Not complaining. Sun, sex, and apparently, smoothies will make anyone happy, but I’m a bit bored, to be honest,” Mia said as she swung her legs off the couch.
She reached for the silk robe hanging from the armrest.
“Good, good,” Mpassi replied absently. “How’s your injury?”
She stood and crossed the living room toward a full-length mirror that hung on the wall.
She pulled her hair back and angled her head so she could inspect the bottom of her left ear.
The bullet fragment had taken a clean bite out of the cartilage.
Only the tip was gone, but she wouldn’t be wearing earrings anytime soon.
Miami being Miami, her plastic surgeon was booked solid for the next six weeks.
So, until then, there was nothing more she could do but apply twice a day the special cream her doctor had prescribed.
“It’s healing,” she said as she tied her robe.
“Glad to hear it. Because I need you back in the game. We’ve got a surveillance package that can’t wait. The dossier’s already in your secure folder.”
Mia walked out onto the balcony.
“Where do you need me?” she asked, squinting into the glare off the bay.
“Everything you need to know about the target is in the file I sent you, but since you asked, the target is in Portland, Maine.”
“Got it,” she replied.
“I want to know who he meets and who he talks to. Don’t engage. Just watch and report,” Mpassi said, ending the call.
Mia dropped the phone into her robe’s pocket and stretched her arms overhead.
“Are you, or we, going somewhere?” Henry asked, stepping onto the balcony with two green smoothies in his hands.
“We’re going to Portland.”
“Cool,” Henry replied. “I love Oregon, they make great wines. Their pinot noir is exquisite.”
“Portland, Maine, you idiot,” Mia said, taking a sip of her smoothie.
“Shit,” Henry said under his breath, deflated. “I don’t think they make wine in Maine.”