Love Another Day

  Tate sighed.

  “After we spend a happy morning in the Montpellier district—they have the quaintest shops and best selection of evening wear—our clandestine lovebirds will take in the sights.” She was looking forward to seeing the spas again and drinking the waters. But the trip down memory lane? Acting young and in love with Tate again? Even if they were both supposed to be someone else? That was a tall order. She hoped she could handle it. If she were truthful she’d admit there had never been anyone who ever came close to Tate for her. If only he could have been faithful …

  “By ‘take in the sights’ you mean scout our exfiltration path?”

  “Exactly. We’ll be hitting the tourist spots Sophia should be visiting.” She tossed him a clean T-shirt from his open suitcase. “Shower and get dressed. We’ll have breakfast at a romantic café near the Imperial Gardens, then shopping and, finally, we’ll take the waters at the spa before getting ready for the party.”

  Tate rolled his eyes, looking like he was stifling a yawn. “Are you trying to bore me to death?”

  She shook her head. “Cheer up—maybe we’ll get lucky and RIOT will take another shot at us.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Just before they headed out of their hotel room, Mal handed Tate his glasses. “Stay in character. And remember, the moment we open this door, we’re two people who are madly in love with each other.”

  “Yeah,” Tate said, sounding decidedly unenthusiastic.

  “I’m not any more excited about it than you are,” Mal lied. She was enjoying being with Tate again and in danger of getting a chink in the armor she’d built around her heart to protect it from Tate.

  “I thought you were the one who put this cover story together.” Tate slid the glasses on and picked up his jacket.

  “At Cover Story’s insistence.” She didn’t want Tate getting the wrong idea. He was the one who’d left her by sleeping with someone else. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was pining after him. Even if she was.

  “With Emmett’s stipulation that I accompany you, everyone in the Agency agreed this cover story had the highest probability of success. Is it my fault that Sophia resembles me?”

  Tate flinched. It was obvious he hated being reminded that Mal was his type, or that he was predictable enough to have a type. The truth was, Tate dated women from many nationalities and races, but he’d always preferred blondes.

  Since first seeing Sophia’s picture, Mal had wondered what Sophia was up to and why she’d chosen to make herself so closely resemble Tate’s ex-wife. If she’d been in Sophia’s position, she would have dyed her hair pink, cut it short, pierced her nose, something, anything, to make herself look different from Mal. If Sophia really was in love with Tate, she was taking a terrible gamble that her resemblance to Mal would turn Tate off, not on. Was she playing off the power of young love? Or was she naïve and stupid?

  Sophia’s choice gave the whole mission a dangerous edge and practically wrote the mission cover story for the Agency. Not to mention the coincidence of this horrid science festival—an event for the whole family, the egghead family—being in the very city where she and Tate had had their first romantic vacation together.

  All of these coincidences smacked of RIOT to Mal. But if they were involved, what was their game? What did they know about Tate that made them believe Sophia was a morsel he couldn’t resist? Was it just the intelligence she could pass on to the Agency? The glory of bringing her in?

  There was only one way to find out—go with the mission flow and keep her eyes and ears open. Before embarking, she’d studied Sophia’s style and done her best to subtly imitate it and create a character that Sophia could easily assume. Although Sophia worked for a clandestine terrorist organization, as far as the Agency knew, she wasn’t a field operative, in short, a spy. Which meant they were dealing with an amateur and someone who wasn’t used to going undercover. And, to make matters worse, in all likelihood, there would be little chance to coach her.

  The secret to creating a successful cover for anyone was picking one that was close enough to their real personality and skills that they could carry it off.

  In the light of creating that character for Sophia, Mal had dressed for the day of sightseeing in short shorts, a crop top that showed off her belly-button ring—Sophia had one—and lacy canvas flats. Seriously, she’d been wondering whether she was getting too old for the ring and now here it was coming in handy.

  “Ready?” Tate had his hand on the doorknob.

  She threw her purse over her shoulder, strode next to Tate, and snuggled into him like she had in the old days. Wrapping her arm around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder, she smiled coyly up at him, playing this for all it was worth. She’d been dying to see Tate squirm for way too long. But her plan backfired—it felt good to be cuddled next to him and somehow even like it was her rightful place.

  He stiffened beneath her touch and was that a scowl on his face? Too bad for him. Emmett had given him an out for this mission, even tried talking him out of attempting it altogether. So he was stuck with her and her cover antics.

  “I am now.” She made kissy lips at him. “You know you love me, Dr. Stevens. Make the world believe it. Showtime.”

  * * *

  Damn Mal. Damn, damn that woman!

  It was probably just a crazy quirk of his, but holding hands in public was a declaration of commitment in Tate’s mind. As such, he stayed as far away from it as possible. Yes, he knew it was weird. He could bed women, but hold their hands where someone might see? Nope.

  There were thousands of paparazzi shots of him with various celebrity women, but in none of them was he holding hands with them. It was just too intimate and constrictive for a playboy like him. The only woman he’d regularly held hands with had been Mal.

  Knowing that, Mal tormented him by grabbing his hand and insisting on holding it everywhere they went. He’d forgotten how well her hand fit in his and the characteristic way they looped their thumbs with his cradling hers. He’d forgotten how warm and comforting her hand felt in his and the way she squeezed his hand as a signal to look at something or to show her excitement. The way she offered encouragement with subtle pressure. Worse, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this simple intimacy with another person.

  She held his hand across the table through a chilly full English breakfast at an open-air café along High Street as clouds scudded by and the sun threatened to make an appearance. Made it damn hard to cut his sausages and fork his stewed tomatoes. Mal didn’t seem to mind.

  She laughed, smiled, cooed, coaxed, and made moony, lovesick goo-goo eyes at him until he could barely take it.

  “Relax, Dr. Stevens! Why are you so uptight? No one from the university staff is going to see us here.” She’d smiled into his eyes and given his hand a quick squeeze and release that reminded him so much of the good days between them, he’d had to grin.

  Just like that, he fell into character. What the hell? He could act like he was in love with the buoyant, positive encouraging woman, or maybe he should say, girl, eating breakfast with him and taking in the architecture as if she’d never seen it before, and it was as delectable as a glass of red wine served with a square of deep, dark chocolate after sex.

  After breakfast, she led him down a tree-lined street, walking hand in hand with him as she gaped at the sights and bubbled over with delight.

  “Can’t you just imagine being dressed in a gown and shopping along these streets two hundred years ago?” She paused to peer into a shop window.

  “Not the gown part, no.”

  She laughed again and leaned her head against his arm. “Well, I can. I feel like I’m in a scene from Pride and Prejudice, or maybe Emma.” She winked at him. “I am playing matchmaker, of a sort.”

  “The omnipresent signs for the science festival don’t seem anachronistic to you?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m pretending they’re from the nineteenth ce
ntury, too.”

  They walked down the tree-lined Promenade past the town hall and through the Imperial Gardens, strolling as if they weren’t in any hurry. They acted like two tourists out to have a good time.

  Tate’s senses were on high alert. It may have been his imagination, but he felt someone following them.

  “Look at that!” Mal tugged his arm and pulled them to a stop to admire the thousands of bedding plants planted in formal formations. “Take my picture!” She pulled her camera from her purse and handed it to him. “Wait! Not here.” She looked around. “There in front of the red flowers. Make sure you get the Promenade in the background behind the flowers.”

  He humored her and took the photo, lining her up in front of a tree of fragrant, bright red petunias piled into a wire form to look like a real tree. The sun came out, feeling warm on his face and lighting Mal in warm, golden tones. Damn, she looked hot and her jeweled belly button sparkled in the sunlight. As he framed her in the shot, he had a sense of déjà vu. He’d taken Mal’s picture here before on a sunny day very much like this one.

  He clicked the picture and handed her the phone. She studied it for a second before blowing it up with a touch of her fingers to the phone’s screen. “It’s a bit blurry. See there?” She pointed to the figure of a man.

  Very sharp of her.

  “Take another shot.” She posed.

  He snapped another picture; this time he enlarged it and studied it before handing it back to her. “RIOT scum,” he whispered as if he were saying it was a beautiful shot.

  “Mason has our back,” she whispered in return. “Should we be worried?”

  “Only because he’ll scare Sophia off.” Tate forced himself to keep from scowling. “Just like we suspected, she’s under tight watch.”

  “Yes, well, I was meandering, hoping to give her time to bump into us.” Mal’s purse strap slipped off her shoulder. She tugged it back up. “I have a change of clothes, makeup, and the Agency-issued disguise kit in here. I was hoping I could get rid of them and lighten the load.

  “She said today. I came prepared to change places with her. We can hope she’ll pick up our clues and meet us at the formal wear shop or somewhere in the shopping district.”

  She flipped the camera around and snapped a picture of Tate before he knew what she was doing. “You look so cute in those glasses. Kayla’s going to love seeing Daddy looking bookish.” Before he could protest, she tucked the phone back in her bag and took his hand again.

  Daddy. They should still be a family. He missed his kid.

  They walked hand in hand through the gardens and into the Montpellier shopping district. She meandered slowly as if browsing and looking for just the right shop. But he was certain she knew exactly where she was headed. He played along, both of them giving Sophia every opportunity to join them.

  Mal pulled her phone out again, looked at the screen as if she was following GPS and up at the building in front of them. “Ah, here it is.”

  The entrance to the small shop in front of them looked like the others lining the flagstone sidewalk—ornate entrance lined with armless statues of women draped in Greek robes and standing on pedestals, fancy white wainscoting above, flower boxes spilling over with ivy and brightly colored assortments of flowers, golden-toned brick second stories, gold lettering with the store name printed on the maroon-painted wood above the entrance. FORMAL WEAR HIRE. So like the Brits not to call it TUX RENTAL.

  Mal leaned into him so close he got a whiff of her perfume and whispered to him. “Play nice in here. With any luck, she’s hiding in a dressing room waiting to pounce on you.”

  “In a men’s clothing store? She must be a real vixen.” He held the door open for Mal.

  They were greeted by a matronly woman with short gray hair who reminded Tate of Dame Judi Dench. For just a sec, he imagined he was talking to M. It was a pleasant fantasy.

  “May I help you?” the clerk asked. Her name tag said she was Alice. Another fantasy dashed, unless she was M in disguise. Fat chance.

  Mal took charge. She evidently didn’t trust Tate to make the right tux choice. “We’ve been invited to Lord Witham’s dinner party. It’s late notice, but it’s white tie and Dr. Stevens needs a tux.”

  “Lord Witham’s, is it?” Alice said conversationally. “You’re in for a treat, then. The manor is lovely. You’re here as part of the science festival, then?”

  Mal nodded, beaming with feigned pride. “Dr. Stevens consulted for one of the talks.”

  “Isn’t that lovely.” Alice was sizing Tate up with an appraising eye. She walked past racks of tuxes behind the counter and grabbed a tape measure. “I hope you’ll be enjoying your stay. Do take in as many of the festivities as possible. There’s a lecture or demonstration for every interest. What is your specialty, Dr. Stevens?”

  “Math,” he said.

  “Ah, math. There’s a subject I was never much good at past basic sums. You have to have a bit of skill at sums if you’re going to work in a shop. Turn around, will you? Let’s get your measurements. We’ll start with your shoulders. That’s the first step.”

  As Tate turned his back to her, he studied the shop. If Sophia was hiding out there, she wasn’t obvious.

  Alice stretched the measuring tape across the width of his shoulders. “Nice broad shoulders.” She noted the measurements and kept up a merry chatter about town, the tourist sites, and the festival as she bent and measured his inseam.

  This was the part he always hated. It was too intimate. He looked straight ahead over the top of her gray head, out the shop window, conscious of escape routes. He didn’t see either the RIOT bastard who’d been following them or Sophia.

  Alice stood and consulted the list of measurements she’d taken. “May I make some suggestions?”

  “Please do,” Tate said, knowing Mal must be dying. She’d love to outfit him. He was sure she already had definite ideas about how she’d dress him, probably in something nerdy. If he was lucky, nerd chic. Tate was happy to put himself in Alice’s apparently capable hands. He had a much better shot of getting a tux to his tastes with her than with Mal controlling the selection.

  It gave him great joy to smile at Mal and give her a subtle shake of his head, warning her to stay undercover.

  Alice was already heading to the racks. “Something from our dinner hire selection, I think.” She pulled three tuxes from the rack and carried them to a dressing room against the far wall of the shop. “Follow me.”

  The dressing room doors were curtains that slid on brass rings on a tension bar. Sophia was definitely not hiding in any of the dressing stalls. Tate hated these kinds of cheap dressing rooms. How was a guy supposed to have any privacy? He was used to being followed by paparazzi, corporate spies, and enemy agents. None of them would be above taking a peek. He could never get the damned curtains not to gap at the edges. Mind the gap, the British would say. And he did. Very much.

  Alice hung two of the tuxes and held the third out, showcasing it before hanging it up. “I suggest you try this one, the Regent, first.” She ran her hand over the coat. “A black tailcoat with barathea trousers flatters almost every physique, but especially an athletic frame.” Alice was either flirting or a very good saleswoman who knew how to flatter her clientele and sweet-talk them into parting with as much cash as she could squeeze out of them.

  Tate guessed this was the most expensive hire of the bunch. Once he put it on, the others would pale by comparison. But, hell, if he had to rent a tux, he was going to get the best one available.

  “Marcella waistcoat and shirt,” Alice continued as she stood back and held the curtain to let Tate into the stall. “With a white bow tie, handkerchief, studs, and cuff links it’s essential formal wear for any white-tie event.

  “It’s classic and very Downton Abbey. You’ll feel like his lordship in it. The women love it.”

  He stepped in.

  Alice pulled the curtains closed with a screech of the rings on the bar. “W
hile you change, I’ll get the accessories. You’ll want the complete ensemble. Miss, you can have a seat here.”

  Mal must really be biting her tongue. Tate was enjoying himself more by the minute, even though Sophia was being obstinate about making an appearance. He figured, though, that when she did, it would be dramatic and designed to ensnare him. If she was smart, which he assumed she was, she’d want to ensure he developed an emotional, or at least lusty, attachment to her and complete “lay his life on the line” loyalty.

  Tate slipped out his jeans and shirt and into the Regent dinner hire ensemble and admired himself in the mirror. He looked damn good. Not as good as he did in one of the many high-end designer tuxedos he owned, but much better than he’d expected. Much better than Mal probably wanted him to look, less nerdy anyway and more like himself. Alice was right, too. He did feel like lord of the manor. Maybe he should think about buying a manor house.

  When he stepped out of the dressing room, Alice was waiting for him with the accessories she’d promised. “Very good, sir. The Regent flatters you, just as I expected.” She turned to Mal. “And the young lady agrees?”

  From the round shape of Mal’s eyes and the lusty look on her face, she definitely did.

  Alice cut Mal off before she could answer. “Don’t answer yet. Not until we have the full effect. Sir, if you will—your wrists.” Alice put a pair of handsome cuff links on him. “Nice.”

  “Now that I’m dressed like the lord of the manor, I feel like I could use a valet to help me dress.” Tate winked at Alice.

  Alice was holding a bow tie that wasn’t yet tied. “The young lady can help you with that.” She waved Mal over as she pulled the starched collar of Tate’s white shirt up. “Have either of you ever tied a bow tie? You can always use the pretied ones. They aren’t bad, but they lack that subtle touch of class.”

  Tate smiled at Mal, relishing the way she squirmed as she finally “admitted” she’d never even tried. That was Mallie speaking. Mal was a pro with a bow tie. And so was he. But he was undercover, so he played dumb.