Live and Let Love

  “Thank you. I like it.” She carried the Zinfandel toward the kitchen. “What can I get you?”

  “Wine’s fine.”

  “Good.” She set the dog treat on the counter, grabbed a corkscrew, opened the wine, and poured two glasses. She grabbed the glasses, handed one to him, and raised hers. “To new friends.”

  “To new friends, may they become old friends.” He clinked.

  She watched him drink over her glass as she took a sip. He could almost see the triumphant gleam. Yeah, she thought she was getting his DNA for sure this time. But the joke was on her.

  “Aldo recommended this Zinfandel. He knows his stuff.”

  “Yes, doesn’t he? This is heavenly.”

  He noticed a pink lipstick ring on her glass. Willow didn’t wear lipstick often. A normal guy would assume she’d fixed up for him. Jack assumed she wore lipstick to mark her glass, so she knew which one to test for his DNA.

  “Let me just get the appetizers.” She disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing a minute later with a silver tray he recognized as one from their wedding. She held the tray out for him.

  Ah, shit, mushrooms stuffed with Gorgonzola. In general, you could call him a cheese man. He loved just about any kind of cheese. Except Gorgonzola. And he despised mushrooms with a passion. They tainted anything they touched. His distaste might have had something to do with a near-miss experience with a Destroying Angel in France. Never trust nefarious French cooks.

  But he smiled, took one, and popped it in his mouth, making sure to wash it down with a big gulp of wine. If he kept this method of drowning out the bad flavors up, he’d pass out by the end of the evening or end up in Willow’s bed. He couldn’t afford to do either.

  “Delicious,” he said for her benefit, and took another. Yeah, he was a glutton for punishment. Anything to keep up a convincing cover.

  “Dinner’s in the oven. It will be ready shortly.” She nodded toward the living room. “Come on in and have a seat.”

  He followed her into the living room. She sat on the sofa, leaving plenty of room for him to sit next to her, and gave him a flirtatious smile. He took the chair opposite her, preferring the view and distance from her and her tantalizing body. His hormones were raging, threatening to overcome his good sense and control.

  Sitting too close to her, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions, like reaching out and touching her in all the right places. A spark of disappointment crossed her face, tinged with a determined look that said, Play hard to get if you like; I’ll play harder and win you over.

  Yeah, he’d seen that look before. And damn it all if she wasn’t right. She could win him over, way too easily. Hell, one accidental breast brush would do him in, in the sex-starved condition he was in. Beautiful women had an unfair advantage when it came to prying intel out of male spies, especially former lovers.

  “That falling rooster interrupted us the other day before I had a chance to find out anything about you,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “Like what you do for a living, your favorite color, highest level of education, sports you played in high school, hobbies, you know, coffee-date essential intel.”

  Had she just used intel on purpose? She wouldn’t get a rise out of him so easily.

  He laughed. “Yeah, that rooster was a conversation stopper.” Let the game of twenty questions and trip-Jack-up begin. As if he were going to come right out and tell her he was an assassin for the CIA. He hadn’t told her the truth about that yet. Why would he now?

  “Let me see, to answer your questions—I’m a public relations exec for a small firm. I travel a lot for the job. Favorite color—red. Bachelor’s degree. Baseball. Hiking and playing guitar. Did I get everything?” He’d hit the cover life dossier essentials.

  “I think you covered the icebreakers.” She took a sip of wine. “How long will you be staying?”

  He shrugged. “I have another week and a half of vacation.” He’d be here long enough to kill Kennett and find out what kind of mischief he was planning for the G8 summit.

  “Speaking of Aldo, he and I tried to pay the deer-hitting invalid a visit. You know Aldo, we went armed with a lasagna and two dozen breadsticks. Turns out we shouldn’t have bothered. We could barely get near the place. Every woman in town was streaming in with some kind of food for him.

  “Kennett better hope he recovers quickly, before the women of this town feed him to death.” Which wasn’t a bad idea. What if Kennett suddenly developed a fatal case of food poisoning? It was something to consider. Shouldn’t be too hard to find a Destroying Angel or Death Cap mushroom to bump him off with. The woods around Orchard Bluff were great mushrooming territory. So Jack had heard Aldo mention.

  She laughed. “Food is the way we show our love around here. Speaking of Shane, I have something to tell you. This will give you a laugh—when I brought him home from the hospital, he nearly gave me a heart attack. The moment we walked into the living room, he was convinced someone had been in there.

  “I couldn’t see how he could tell, unless he had hidden cameras installed. Everything looked the same to me.”

  Jack had to work hard to keep his concern from showing and laughed politely. “Did you fess up to feeding his dogs?”

  She waved her hand. “Are you kidding? No way. It’s much more fun to be clandestine.” She watched Jack closely for a reaction.

  She’d have to work harder than that to get Jack to admit to being the hardened spy that he was.

  “No, I had to fall back on my excellent lying and acting skills.”

  “He believed your innocent act? You fooled him?” Jack liked the shared intimacy of their secret, but he was wondering what had set Kennett off and worrying that he suspected Willow of seeing something she shouldn’t have.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “We were so careful not to disturb anything,” Jack said, acting confused, as Con would. He had been careful. Damn careful.

  “I know! We even cleaned up the beer the dogs spilled.”

  Jack’s turn not to give himself away. “What about the dogs? How were they? Had they sobered up by the time you got Kennett home?” The drugs should have worn off by then.

  “They were fine, but Shane thought they looked sluggish. That man is too observant. Of course, I couldn’t tell him they’d gotten drunk, thanks to him. Poor babies, they were only fending for themselves.”

  “Good. I’m glad the dogs are fine.” Jack frowned. “But why did he think someone had been in the house? That’s weird.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She became suddenly serious. “And his paranoia continued. He was dizzy. I had to help him upstairs to bed.”

  Jack didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Again in the bedroom, he looked as if he thought someone had been in there. He was scared, almost as if he’d seen a ghost.”

  “Really?” What would have scared the Rooster?

  She nodded. “You know what was even more odd about Shane? I’ve been thinking and thinking about this and still can’t make any sense of it.

  “He picked up a wad of paper, a smashed wad of paper, that was on the floor beneath the window. I was opening the bed. He didn’t think I saw. But when he unfolded it, he paled and looked angry.

  “When I asked him about it, he claimed it was a note to himself, a reminder about something he’d forgotten to do.”

  She had Jack’s full attention now.

  “But I saw what was on that piece of paper and it wasn’t a note.”

  “What was it?” Jack asked.

  “A geometric pattern called the Flower of Life.”

  SMASH! Jack had to work hard not to give himself away. That note was a message from SMASH to Kennett, a warning—screw up again and we’ll take you out. Jack had seen one of their threatening notes before.

  RIOT must have realized the Rooster had passed them bad intel. They generally weren’t the forgiving sort. Which meant that either the Rooster was too important to take out before the G8 auxiliary
summit or they suspected someone else had tampered with the drop and were hoping to smoke them out. Either way, they’d view the bad intel as meaning the Rooster had been careless and would eventually have to be punished. Jack just hoped RIOT didn’t suspect him as being the source of the Rooster’s screwup. He was also disappointed that SMASH wouldn’t be killing the Rooster for him. They were much crueler than he’d ever be.

  And damn it all, too, Kennett would be even more on his guard now that he knew SMASH was watching him as well.

  “That’s odd,” Jack said, remembering to be Con. “What do you think it meant?”

  “No idea,” Willow said. “But it is odd behavior.”

  Just then a timer dinged.

  Willow popped up and headed to the kitchen. “Let me check on dinner.”

  Jack watched her walk away, salivating over the gentle sway of her hips, aching to touch her. She looked so fine, sleek, and sexy when she walked in heels. All lovely, long legs, and cute butt. He watched her curves as she grabbed a pair of oven mitts, bent over the oven, and pulled out a dish of eggplant Parmesan. Every part of him ached to touch her, just walk up behind her, grab that fantastic ass of hers, and take her in the kitchen.

  He swallowed hard and tried not to think about it. Making love with her had too many dangerous consequences, most important giving himself away as still among the living. Although it would probably get him out of having to eat eggplant.

  It was just too damn bad Willow had decided to play the game this way. She was a terrific cook and he’d been salivating all day over the thought of eating her home cooking again. Her talents in the kitchen were just one of the many things he missed about her, though by no means the thing he longed for most.

  He’d have to make the best out of a tasteless situation. Savor the sauce, so to speak.

  Willow set the dish on a ceramic trivet on the table.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Jack asked, still admiring her form.

  “Thanks, sweet of you to offer, but I have everything under control.”

  Oh, shit, did she! His sweet little Willow had taken torture to a new level. He watched as she went to the fridge and pulled out a cold pea salad in a clear cut-crystal bowl. He almost gagged just looking at it.

  He hated peas, especially cold peas. The only thing worse was canned peas, and unless he missed his guess, she’d probably found a way to incorporate some into that grotesque salad. Maybe there’d be bread?

  He was quickly rethinking his plan. Giving himself away in the height of passion was a lot more appealing than trying not to gag on peas. He sighed inwardly and called up his training. He’d eaten bugs and raw entrails, just not in a lovely romantic setting being served by his wife. Somehow, without the imminent threat of danger to his life hanging over his head, just the temptation of giving in to hot sex, the thought of eating peas seemed about as bad as eating grubs. Situational gastronomy.

  “Dinner is served!” Willow said with a sly smile.

  * * *

  Willow watched Con closely as she put the food on the table. He was all smiles, charm, sparkling eyes, and wit. Not a touch of dread on his face. He’d handled the mushrooms well, too. But then, he’d only eaten two. A man of his size and appetite should have scarfed down a dozen.

  She set the eggplant Parmesan on the table next to the pea salad, directly in front of him, and poured them each a glass of water and another glass of wine. Later, she’d just pack up one of those lovely glasses, stuff it in the collection bag for protection, wrap it up, and overnight it to Drew’s guy. She already had the box ready to go. In less than twenty-four hours, Jack’s game would be over. Maybe sooner if she could get him to bed. He’d never be able to hide that sexy chuff of his.

  She smiled at him. He was so easy on the eyes. It was hard not to stare at him. She’d noticed, too, that he was having a hard time looking away from her.

  She raised her glass. “Bon appétit!”

  He nodded, raised his to hers, and clinked. They both drank.

  She handed him a set of serving utensils. “I’m casual. I like to eat family-style. You don’t mind serving yourself?”

  Yes, she was taking pity on him, in a way. And this was also a test—would he take a big enough serving to throw her off?

  “Casual is just the way I like things.” He took the utensils and served himself a respectable portion of eggplant, took a nice spoonful of pea salad, and then loaded up on bread.

  She passed him a small bowl of grated cheese, trying not to look too gleeful as she watched him closely. Jack loved a good Parmesan-Reggiano or a nice pecorino Romano. He hated exactly two types of cheese—Gorgonzola and Mizithra. Guess what was in that bowl?

  Con was sharp enough to smell the Mizithra without being obvious. “No extra cheese, thanks. This food looks rich enough and delicious as it is.”

  Very good, Jack. Totally diplomatic.

  She watched as he took a large bite of the main course. Now, while he was distracted by trying to pretend to like the eggplant, that is, if he was really Jack, was the time to grill him about the finer details she’d learned on his Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn accounts. She opened her mouth, but Con cut her off.

  “This eggplant is heavenly. Absolutely the best I’ve tasted.”

  She closed her mouth. He sounded genuine. He wasn’t obviously gagging. This was a disappointing test. She so wanted him to be Jack. Which meant—she wanted to see him gag.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to thank you in person for the friend request on Facebook,” Con said before she could speak again. “And the follow on Twitter.”

  Oh, shoot and darn! If Con was Jack, he’d taken the offensive and probably studied the heck out of those accounts. With hope springing eternal, she’d ignored the obvious evidence that Con would pay attention to the accounts and Jack wouldn’t. Which would mean that the man across the table from her was Con. That had been her theory, anyway. Now she rejected it as a foolish test of identity.

  “My pleasure.” She felt her face go warm as she realized that Con/Jack must surely know that she knew a lot more about him than she’d let on earlier.

  But the man in front of her didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. At least he was kind enough not to comment on it.

  “Did you see those pictures of my cousin Vinnie? That guy is a crack-up, a real prankster!” His eyes shone with admiration. “Has Aldo told you any of the family stories about him?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, you have to hear this.” Con/Jack grinned and launched into a story. “Vinnie and I were in Las Vegas last year.…”

  Jack had always been a fantastic storyteller. Con was equally talented. He soon had her laughing along with him, entertained and asking questions, enjoying herself in a way she hadn’t in over two years.

  If Con was Jack, he was trying to be cagey, taking the offensive to spill all the info on his social sites so she couldn’t grill him and get him to slip up. Yes, her husband the spy was a tactical genius. Which had been one downside of being married to him. He generally outwitted and outplayed her. She warned friends and relatives never to play Risk with him, especially not Secret Mission Risk. He was killer at that.

  Little did Jack know, though, that he was giving himself away the more he talked and tried to convince her he was Con, getting so caught up in the details that he forgot to mask his classic storytelling style. And even though he spoke in a gravelly voice that wasn’t Jack’s and he had that sexy European accent that he never accidentally dropped out of, Jack’s wit shone through.

  On the other hand, he answered the questions she peppered him with as easily as if he’d actually lived the life he talked about. Which was an argument for Con. And everything he said jibed with what she’d researched. She made a few mental notes of details to check later. But she doubted she’d catch him in a slipup.

  Willow was enjoying herself so greatly, and they were talking so much, that time just slipped away and the dinner on their plates
got cold without her realizing it until too late. They’d been so animated in conversation, she’d forgotten to eat more than a bite or two. Con’s plate was suspiciously untouched, too, that sneaky man.

  Everyone knows that cold eggplant Parmesan is simply no good, no good at all. She couldn’t force him to eat it. He’d outplayed her again. Finally, she looked down at her plate with an exaggerated expression of regret. “Our dinner’s gotten cold.” She smiled weakly at him. “We were so busy talking, we forget to eat. It’s no good now.”

  “No good now?” He smiled back, took a big forkful of eggplant Parmesan, and popped it in his mouth. “Delicious,” he said after he’d swallowed. He reached for his wineglass to wash it down.

  “You big liar. It is not! Not cold.” She passed him the basket of bread. “Here. We’ll just have to fill up on this and dessert.”

  Curses, foiled again! Drat that lying, spying man.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When having dinner with the enemy, or your supersneaky, up-to-no-good-trying-to-out-you-as-her-husband wife, evasive action and diversionary strategies are absolutely essential tactics of battle. Both of which Jack used to his advantage. Hell, he always could tell a good story.

  One small bite of pea salad and one large forkful of eggplant for the cover; one long, funny story to save his stomach. And now he’d won—the offending eggplant Parmesan would soon be going down the disposal.

  However, dinner was waning. And he had yet to make the big drinking glass switch. Lani had coached him to create a diversion. Diversion was the soul of magic.

  With that in mind, he accidentally bumped his dinner plate. Which then accidentally landed in his lap, eggplant side down.

  “Oh, shit!” he said, and looked at Willow apologetically as he pulled the plate and his serving of eggplant from his lap and set them on the table.

  Willow jumped up as he dabbed at the red sauce in his lap with his cloth napkin. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s red sauce.” He made a face he thought the dandy Con would make, a face that regretted the damage to the pants. Jack, however, wouldn’t be mourning their loss.