Kristin felt like laughing, but there was nothing amusing about Max’s stony expression. “On occasion? So you’re what? A private investigator or something?”
“A covert operative,” he said.
“A spy?” she asked incredulously.
He nodded curtly.
Then she did laugh. “That’s crazy, Max. I don’t believe you. Show me some credentials.”
“I work undercover. I don’t carry credentials. Or a gun,” he added, anticipating her next question.
“Why would the CIA hire you? I mean, you’re just a rich playboy.”
He raised a sardonic brow. “Who better to hobnob with wealthy drug czars playing polo in Argentina or attending the Carnival in Rio. Or munitions dealers gambling in Monte Carlo, or Arab terrorists playing tennis in Dubai?
“I have infamous parents. Outrageous siblings. I’m a peer of the realm, Lord Maxwell, youngest son of the Duchess of Blackthorne and her cruel—or is it crazy?—billionaire husband. Who would ever suspect me of spying? Which is why I’m so good at what I do.”
His explanation made surprising sense. She asked the next obvious question. “Why me?”
“Short answer? You’re a world-class tennis player who also happens to be a trained FBI agent.”
“I still don’t get it,” Kristin said.
“Foster drew the logical inference that if an attack was going to be made at a tennis locale in the States, the attacker might have some connection to tennis. He—or she—might be a coach, a player or someone working for a player or in a player’s family. He figured we might intercept the assassin if we send someone undercover to another tennis venue in advance of the U.S. Open. After some discussion, Wimbledon was selected over the French Open.”
That also made sense, Kristin conceded. The French Open was at the end of the month, which didn’t leave much time for planning.
“The CIA figured since I have a tennis background, and I live in London, I’m the logical person to infiltrate the professional tennis locker rooms at Wimbledon and listen for what I might hear about an assassination attempt on the president.”
Kristin made a face. “I haven’t played professional tennis for the past ten years.”
“Neither have I,” Max replied. “Which is why the CIA arranged with Scotland Yard—and the cooperation of the All England Lawn Tennis Club—for an exhibition mixed doubles match to be played prior to opening day at Wimbledon. Since Foster knew you and I were friends when we played junior tennis, he suggested you as my doubles partner.”
“I didn’t know your uncle knew we were friends.”
Max didn’t reply to her non sequitur. He rubbed a hand across his nape and said, “I told him this was a bad idea.”
“Because I haven’t played tennis for ten years?”
“That. And because of what happened between us.”
There it was. The elephant in the room. Kristin said nothing, because she had no idea what to say.
He eyed her and said into the silence, “I knew it would be hard—maybe impossible—for us to work together. But I couldn’t very well explain why to my CIA boss or my uncle. Especially since I’m not quite sure myself what happened.”
He’d contacted her in every way he could after their one night of love. One night of sex, she amended. But she’d refused to communicate with him. It was all water under the bridge. There was no going back. So why speak of it now? Especially since he was right. It would be impossible for them to work together. So why put them both through the agony of trying?
“I presume you’re hoping I’ll get you off the hook by refusing your offer,” she said at last.
He nodded. “I was pretty sure you’d refuse. But I was obliged to bring you the offer.”
“Who will you get if I say no?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll find someone.”
Kristin had a pretty good idea who that someone might be. A woman she disliked intensely. But she didn’t say the name, because she didn’t want to discuss what had happened ten years ago. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
“Well? What’s your answer, Princess?” Max said. “Want to play spy with me?”
Trust Max to make a joke of the whole thing. She wasn’t laughing. She met his gaze and said, “You’re off the hook, Max. My answer to your generous offer is no.”
“But—”
“Not just no,” she amended. “But hell no.”
2
Kristin was feeling frantic. Was her daughter a passenger on the flight from Switzerland that had landed at Miami International Airport an hour ago? Or had Felicity found some way to elude her chaperon before the plane took off? Would she be seeing Flick in a few minutes, when she cleared customs? Or had her precocious child managed to run away again?
Kristin paced impatiently at the waiting area for friends and family of arriving American Airlines passengers clearing customs. With any luck, her nine-year-old daughter had gotten on AA Flight 87 from London, which had connected with AA Flight 6485 from Zurich, Switzerland, where Flick had been enrolled in boarding school. The headmistress hadn’t wanted to wait until Kristin could come get her daughter. She’d insisted on putting Flick on the first available flight back to the States with a chaperon from the school.
Apparently, Flick had gotten into a fight with another girl. The headmistress’s decision had been final: Flick was no longer welcome at the school.
It was one more disaster to add to a growing list. How different—how much worse—her life was just seven days after she’d refused Max’s offer!
Over the past week since she’d met with Max Benedict, Kristin had lost weight from her already slender frame, so her cheeks looked gaunt. She had dark circles under her eyes from too many sleepless nights. A glimpse of herself reflected in the glass windows leading outside showed a heart-shaped face that looked haunted.
I should have gone to London, she thought. But making that choice wouldn’t have erased all the problems facing her now. She had to believe she’d made the right choice refusing Max, although his visit had left her feeling slightly anxious and surprisingly sad.
Several of those waiting for family to clear customs watched her warily, despite the fact she didn’t fit any sort of terrorist profile. As usual, her naturally curly blond hair was pinned up tight, although bothersome wisps had escaped. She wore a professional-looking collared white cotton blouse, crisp with extra starch from the dry cleaner, along with navy blue trousers. The matching navy blue jacket hid the Glock 27 she wore in a belt holster and had an inside pocket where she kept her FBI badge.
Although it was questionable whether either gun or badge would still be in her possession after her meeting with the FBI’s Shooting Incident Review Team (SIRT), an FBI version of Internal Affairs, later this afternoon.
Kristin’s glance darted from one individual to the next, automatically surveilling the waiting area. She focused intently on a suspicious-looking man who fit a profile the government wasn’t supposed to be using. His thick black eyebrows rose in alarm before he reached for a giggling two-year-old with black-button eyes and lifted her into his lap, holding her close to protect her from the crazy-looking lady.
So, probably not a terrorist, Kristin thought. Although he likely thinks you might be one. Get a grip. Be cool.
The