Lily unthinkingly stepped harder on the accelerator—her unconscious mind’s way, she supposed, of saying, oh, yes please.
She bit her lip and moderated the speed. She turned on the car stereo, and the Turtles’ “Happy Together” came on.
“Is this the radio?” Scott asked.
“No, that’s my phone hooked up to the sound system.”
“You’re kidding me?” He looked like he was holding back laughter.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“This is the sappiest, cheeriest song in the whole world. It’s, like, for the closing credits of cheesiest rom-coms.”
“Is there a problem with that?”
“It’s just that you’re this badass international spy. I figured you’d like music with a little more edge to it, that’s all.” He chuckled and sang along. “So happy togetherrrrr.”
“Shut up! Tosser.”
He ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it back, and stopped. “What’s that on your temple?”
Crap. She hadn’t concealed it with makeup as well as she had hoped. “Nothing.”
“Was it from the base jumping? Did you hit something when you landed?”
“You know I didn’t. I had it already. Minor work injury.” She turned her high beams on him. “I’m a badass international spy, remember?”
“That looks pretty nasty. What happened?”
“Scott, you know the deal. Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s the only way this is going to work.”
“Well, I hate the deal. The deal sucks. I can’t believe I let you go off into danger on your own—”
“Let me? What, now you’re going to pull out the apron and housecoat?” she teased. “Is Scott Renard going to go toe to toe with a bunch of hardened mercenaries to protect his lady’s honor?”
“You could stand to say that in a slightly less emasculating way,” he mockingly pouted.
“If you weren’t being so ‘masculated,’ I wouldn’t have to emasculate you now, would I?”
The multimillionaire turned to look out of the windshield. Lily could see that behind the slick veneer and cocky self-assurance wealth and success brought was still an insecure nerd. It made her like him even more.
“Let’s not dabble in shop talk, all right?” she suggested with a grin. “I came here to see you to get away from all that.”
He chuckled with appreciation and relief. “Fine. Let’s get back to my place. We’ll see what we can turn up on your golden ticket.”
Chapter Seven
Morgan arrived at his house, a two-story ranch in the Boston suburb of Andover, Massachusetts.
Alex had her own apartment now that she was drawing a paycheck. It felt strange not having her around anymore, but it was also great that he and Jenny had the house to themselves. No matter how often his work took him away from home, he always craved being back in Jenny’s arms. With Alex off doing her thing, he wouldn’t have to wait.
Morgan opened the front door and walked right into the middle of a ladies’ book club. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to face him.
“Dan!” said Jenny, standing. “I didn’t know you were coming!” She hugged him tight. Her warmth was cruel, mocking his desire. He felt the urge to order everyone to leave.
“We were just discussing When the Horses Wild Ran. Keri was just about to talk about the symbolism in—”
“I’m going to go take a shower,” he interrupted. Then, with the best smile he could muster, he said, “Please make yourselves at home.”
He wasn’t lying—at least about half of it. He took a quick shower, pulled on a pair of jeans, buttoned up a shirt, and went back downstairs. The club, thankfully, was on a break. He wasn’t sure how much Horse symbolism he could take. Jenny was having an involved conversation with two other guests, one of whom he knew to be their next-door neighbor, Cynthia. So he went to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator instead.
He heard the clicking of heels, and a woman he didn’t know came in after him. Her skin was tanning-bed orange—looking like a warning poster for melanoma. Her lips were plumped with Botox, and he wondered whether she didn’t also walk around with a perpetual pout on top of that. Her hair was calculatedly messy—blond highlights clashing against reddish-brown straw.
She flitted her fake eyelashes as she shot him an “Oh, hello there.” She had a glass of sangria in her hand. “Would you like a drink? Oh, look at me, offering you a drink in your own home!”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, you must be Dan.” She pronounced his name with two syllables more than it could carry. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Steffani. That’s two f’s and an i. Enchantée.” She held out her hand. He knew she meant for him to kiss, but he shook it instead.
“So where did you run off to?”
“Traveling,” he said, “For work.”
“Oh yes? What business are you in?” He held back the urge to laugh at how transparent her feigned interest was.
“Cars. Classic. Vintage. Especially American muscle cars from the fifties and sixties.”
She reached out her hand and put it on his shoulder. “I like American muscle...cars.” She emitted a high-pitched laugh, like she had said something hilarious.
“I can send you a catalog,” he said. “Excuse me. I need to go find Jenny.”
Leaving Steffani-with-two-f’s-and-an-i behind, he cut into Jenny’s conversation. “Pardon me, ladies. Could I borrow my wife for one second?”
Jenny looked from him to the ladies. “Excuse me, girls.”
As soon as he got her two steps away, he said, “I need your help with something. Upstairs.”
“Of course,” she said casually, following him up the stairs and into the bedroom. As soon as she had shut the door, he pounced and kissed her, pushing her against the wall. She ran her hands through his hair and his back, feeling his flexing muscles.
“I didn’t know you were having the Real Housewives over,” he whispered between kisses.
“Oh, hush, you,” she said and did it for him with her lips.
“So how was your mission?” she said huskily. “Get a lot of bad guys?”
“I don’t want to talk about them. I’m more interested in this one bad girl.” He ran his hands under her shirt.
“Dan,” she complained through an irrepressible grin. “My guests. They’ll—”
He kissed her neck, and she moaned softly, grabbing his shirt to pull it up over his head.
* * * *
That night found Morgan in Brookline, in a neighborhood that was pure old money, filled with colonial houses with broad yards. It was some of the most expensive suburban square footage in the country.
The afternoon with Jenny—especially her awkward return to the party, adjusting her clothes and pretending they hadn’t been doing what they were just doing—was now a glowing, but regretfully fading, memory.
He drove his Shelby Cobra down Heath Street, where Collins lived. Some two hundred feet from Collins’s gate was a car parked on the street. He made out two men sitting inside as he passed.
He knew a stakeout when he saw one.