Love Another Day

  She walked around the Tower Green, staring up at the Queen’s House, shuddering as she remembered her history—Anne Boleyn had been executed here, as well as sixteen-year-old Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Days Queen.

  Not being much past sixteen, she found it hard to imagine dying, having her head lopped off, facing it bravely with dignity. How could those people of old have been so cruel? Why kill a teenager simply because her dying young cousin the king had named her his successor? That wasn’t her fault. Poor thing, she’d been damned if she did and damned if she didn’t take the throne. History wasn’t exactly as romantic as a fairy tale. Of course, after years in the Agency, Malene had lost her innocence. People killed for much less than a threat to their power.

  She was so lost in her thoughts and used to ignoring the sounds of tourists around her, she didn’t hear Tate walk up on her right.

  “The Queen’s House is the most haunted place at the Tower.” His intonation was brilliantly American. His voice young and sexy.

  She felt almost rapturous, as if she’d conjured him up herself. “Oh, thank goodness! Someone from home.” As she turned to look at the young man, she was thinking he’d never live up to that voice and wonderful East Coast accent of his. Really, she could have almost kissed him just because of that.

  But his voice was nothing to the way he looked. Over six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Slender, but taut and fit, with enough bulk to impress. Dark brown hair. Deep brown, laughing, intelligent eyes. She fell in love in that moment. Love at first sight. Why not? She’d been primed for it.

  “I call Virginia home. You don’t sound like you’re from there,” he said, cocking a brow.

  Her California-girl accent had slipped through. “Maybe I should have said, ‘from the homeland.’”

  “That sounds a little too Bolshevist.” He looked around. “No friends with you? Family? Overprotective fathers?”

  “Nope. I’m by myself.”

  “I hope you at least have some pepper spray on you. You really shouldn’t tell strangers you’re alone and vulnerable.”

  “Who said I’m vulnerable?” She shot him a flirtatious smile and made a girlie fist, the kind with her thumb wrapped inside, ready to get broken if she tried to smack someone. She knew better. She knew how to fight. Her brothers had taught her. She was just pulling his chain.

  He laughed again. “Vicious, but that’s not going to do much to scare off a ghost. You really should be careful around here. You never know when you’ll run into a spook.”

  Her turn to look around. “What about you? Where’s your entourage?”

  “I was hoping you’d be it.” He winked. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I can spot a spook a mile away. You’ll be perfectly safe with me. How’d you like to hang out? Let me show you the Crown Jewels.”

  “As long as you mean the Crown Jewels.”

  “What else would I mean?”

  Uh-huh.

  “You could be a psychopathic serial killer,” she teased back.

  He shrugged. “At least I’d be a good old American killer. You look thirsty. Let me buy you something to drink. And maybe a biscuit to go along with it.”

  “Please tell me you mean a cookie. I could really go for a great, big chocolate-chip cookie.” And she really wanted to get to know him, and listen to that sexy American accent of his for as long as she could.

  That was their start, the beginning of the end. Later, when she found out he was working for the Agency when they met that day at the Tower, she finally understood his inside joke about spooks. She’d thought at the time he was just being glib.

  She also later learned that he’d been at the Tower meeting a contact. He’d been high with adrenaline after receiving some vital and privileged intelligence from a RIOT double agent.

  Thinking about a chocolate-chip cookie made her stomach growl. She should have signed up for the sleeper service, as Tate had, and had dinner before they departed. But, to be honest, she hadn’t even thought about it. Now, she’d have to raid the larder as soon as they took off and the captain turned off the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign.

  Half an hour later, her stomach was still growling, and she got her wish. The captain’s voice boomed over the passenger address system, “You’re now free to roam about the cabin.”

  About time. They fed you pretty well in business class, but the dinner cart hadn’t yet made an appearance. Malene unbuckled her seat belt, stood, and stretched. When she glanced at Tate, his chair was fully reclined flat. He wore his headphones. All of his lights were off. His blindfold was on. And he was snuggled beneath a particularly soft, comfy-looking blanket and out cold.

  Curses on that man. He could sleep anywhere, just drop off in mere seconds. She, on the other hand, usually took at least half an hour to fall asleep under the best circumstances. She never slept well on planes, trains, or in cars. Trying to was practically a lost cause. She was not lulled off to dreamland by the white noise of an engine. And she couldn’t afford to take a sleeping pill, which made her groggy. Tate, on the other hand, was in for a nice, long sleep until breakfast. While she’d arrive at Heathrow with bags beneath her eyes to face the beautiful, young Sophia.

  Tate didn’t so much as stir as she scooted past him on the way to the larder. He didn’t look like he was on alert at all. Any old terrorist could probably walk up and off him.

  She resisted sighing. Top secret agent, my hind foot. Now she’d have to watch his sleeping backside.

  The larder, as the British liked to call a pantry or snack cupboard, was located in a middle section of the business-class cabin. It was a waist-high cupboard; a platter of fruit, cheese, and crackers sat on top. Bottled water—still and sparkling—sat next it.

  Malene frowned. She needed chocolate, something sweet and sinful to take her mind off Tate and the current situation. Fruit wasn’t going to do it.

  A flight attendant walked by. “Not satisfied with what’s out? Open the cupboard doors and help yourself. We keep all the good stuff behind closed doors.” She winked and walked on.

  Why not?

  Malene opened the polished stainless steel doors and sighed with happiness as she caught a glimpse of an assortment of Cadbury chocolate bars, and British biscuits. And another of American junk food—chocolate bars, packages of chocolate-chip cookies, potato chips. She kneeled down to get a bird’s-eye view of the selection, being careful to make sure her tiny denim skirt still covered her butt. She’d half forgotten what it was like to wear the tiny things. As she was squatting, she pulled a basket of cookies out from the shelf and a reflection in the open stainless steel cupboard door caught her attention. A man was staring at her from behind from the first row of business class behind the larder.

  Malene wasn’t trained in the art of surveillance, but she was observant and she’d lived with Tate long enough to pick up some of his habits. The staring man was good, not too obvious, but he was watching her all the same. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. This wasn’t a “you’re such a hot chick” perusal. Or an “I wonder if there are any good cookies in that cupboard?” glance. Or even a “pardon me but your slip is showing” look. This man was watching her, confidently, and he had a “thrill of the hunt” look in his eyes, from what she could tell through the skewed optics of the stainless steel door. She needed a closer look and a picture to send to HQ.

  She rummaged through the basket of cookies, keeping her eyes averted as she studied the man’s reflection. She pulled her phone from her skirt pocket. Malene’s expertise was costuming and dressing. This man was dressed like a business traveler in jeans, a light blue dress shirt, and leather loafers. But something felt off about him.

  She needed a closer look. Fortunately, a round, wrapped package of wine gums was just the tool she needed to get up close and personal with the watcher. She managed to snap a quick picture of the reflection in the door at an angle she hoped he couldn’t tell what she’d done. Then she picked up a basket of candy from the shelf, tipped it in the guy’s dir
ection, and “slipped,” sending several rolls of wine gums bowling toward his feet.

  He stopped one with his size-thirteen loafer as she scrambled after her rolling candy on her hands and knees. A woman in the seat to his right stopped two packages and handed them to her as she crawled past her.

  “Sorry.” Malene winced. “Thanks! I’m such a klutz.”

  Her target leaned down and picked up the roll of candy just as she crawled to his feet. The nails on his beefy hand were chipped and dirty. He had a callus on the top of the first finger on his right hand between the first and second knuckle—the trigger finger. The callus was the sure sign of a practiced shooter, someone who shot high enough caliber bullets to deliver a good recoil on the rifle. The man was a sniper or she missed her guess.

  As he held the candy out to her, she smiled up at him, avoiding his eyes as if she were embarrassed. “Thanks.”

  He grunted. “Welcome.”

  Huh, normally pitched male voice, neither high nor low, just average. No special accent she could peg with just the single word.

  He had a full beard and mustache. It was a very convincing fake. But Malene knew her costume and stage makeup, and a fake it was.

  She took the roll of candy from him and inched away, back to the larder, where she stuffed the jar back into its spot, stood, and closed the cupboard doors.

  She had to talk to Tate and warn him about this guy. Now. Even if she had to wake him up to do it. A task she didn’t relish. Tate wasn’t exactly Mr. Sunshine when he first woke up.

  * * *

  Tate was nestled snuggly in his bed, dreaming a confused, and sensual, dream about a mission where he was assigned to seduce a college-age Mal. She wanted him to rescue her, take her away with him.

  He pressed her up against the outside wall of an ancient stone tower. In a garden, with blue sky above and the sun shining warmly. Music played in the background, soft, dreamy music. His hand slid up her smooth, firm, yet incredibly soft and creamy bare thigh, beneath her tiny skirt. He used his other hand to prop himself against the wall, leaning heavily on it. His pulse raced. He wanted to take her, right there. And she was willing.

  She looked up at him with passion and desire in her eyes, begging to be kissed. He lowered his lips to hers—

  “Tate! Tate, wake up. I have to talk to you.”

  Disoriented, he squinted as he opened his eyes. Mal squatted next to him, holding his headphones away from his ear as she hissed at him.

  What the hell? This wasn’t the willing Mal he’d been dreaming about.

  “Mal?” He frowned at her, glad his involuntary arousal was covered with a blanket. It was quickly wilting. “You better have a good reason for waking me up.” And interrupting a romping round of sex with a college-age you.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He detected the worry beneath her calm voice. He propped up on his elbows and studied her. “So talk.”

  “In private.”

  He arched a brow. What could the woman want now? If she’d been a trained agent, she would have known to use a code phrase if this had to do with their mission.

  “The only private place around here is the bathroom,” he mouthed back to her.

  She shrugged. “Fine with me.”

  He sighed, sat up straight, ran his hands through his hair, and reached into his private storage compartment and retrieved his signal jammer. He slid on his in-flight slippers and stood. “You do realize what it will look like?”

  “Mile-high with my professor. I get it. Just don’t get any ideas.”

  “After you.” He followed her down the aisle to the business-class bathroom. Personally, he was impressed she hadn’t flinched at his suggestion of the bathroom. She did hesitate a moment at the door, even though the UNOCCUPIED sign showed.

  He pushed the crease of the folding door, banging it open, and held out his hand in that gentlemanly gesture meaning “ladies first, after you.” However, if a gesture can be sarcastic, then his was. He was mostly impatient.

  Airplane lavs, even business-class lavatories, are notoriously tiny. Mal stepped in, turned to face him, and backed in as far as she could, and he still barely had room to squeeze in. It took some jiggling and rearranging to get the door closed. Finally, they stood breast to chest, toe to toe, and Tate was finding things getting hard for him.

  Mal had a nice pair, always had. And right now, they were rubbing up against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. She looked so young and sweet, so almost vulnerable and in need of protection. So tantalizing. So much like she had in the dream she’d woken him from, the one he was still trying to shake. Why did dreams have to hang on and feel so real? Why couldn’t he shake the emotions he’d felt—the desire and need?

  He looked into her steely eyes, and even their hardness and the fear he saw didn’t cool his ardor, though it should have.

  She opened her mouth to speak. He held up a hand to silence her and activated his signal jammer. When he was satisfied it was working, he nodded for her to go ahead. “This had better be good,” he whispered.

  She frowned slightly. “Would I pull you out of a deep sleep if it weren’t?”

  “You really want an answer?” She would definitely have woken him if she’d known what he was dreaming about. Hell, he would have woken himself. If dreams really do reveal subconscious desires, he was in deep trouble.

  She grinned. For just a second, she was that girl from his dreams. “If you hadn’t been out of it and totally vulnerable, you would have noticed—we have a tail.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a bearded guy in business class just behind the larder in seat 6A. He’s dressed like a business traveler, but the beard is a fake and so is he. He’s been watching me.”

  Tate pursed his lips. “You’re wearing a short skirt and look like a college girl, of course he’s watching you.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere.” She took a deep breath. “Didn’t you hear what I said—the beard’s fake and this isn’t Halloween. It’s a very good fake, too, not many people besides an expert would notice. Now, why would a man be wearing a fake beard if not to be able to lose it and make a quick escape unnoticed?”

  She had a point. “You mean like after he’s committed a heinous crime?”

  She nodded. “He’s an assassin—”

  “Wait a minute. Fake beard to assassin, that’s a huge leap in logic—”

  “He has a callus on the outside of the first finger of his right hand between the first and second knuckle.”

  “Damn.”

  The plane hit a small pocket of turbulence. Just enough to bounce Mal’s breasts and distract Tate from clear thinking. He and Mal had always had chemistry. That had never been their problem. Until now. There was no way he was giving her any ideas about how attractive he still found her.

  Mal let out a cute little squeak, and arched back and grabbed the counter for support. Which had the effect of pushing her breasts more firmly against his chest.

  “What are we going to do? What if we’ve already been discovered? Should we call Emmett and abort—”

  “Are you crazy? No aborting.” He had to think fast.

  Mal pulled her phone from her pocket and turned the screen toward him. “Recognize this guy? Is he one of your RIOT buddies?”

  Tate studied it for a while. “Is this his reflection in a pantry door?”

  Mal nodded.

  Tate frowned. “Not from these distorted optics. But I like the fake beard. Wouldn’t mind one myself.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Be serious—what’s our next move?”

  He was thinking fast. “I’m going to have to get rid of him.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You’re going to kill him?”

  He sighed. “You know what I do for a living.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t mistake me for squeamish. I know what all our agents do. I’ve enabled you to do it. I’d agree with that course of action if we had more definite data. But what if I’m wrong? Wh
at if he’s really an innocent air marshal traveling undercover?”

  “Then why would he be watching you? You don’t exactly fit the profile for a terrorist.”

  She bit her lip. Apparently, she had no answer.

  He shook his head. “Look. I’m going to disable him for a while is all. Search him. See if he’s sent off any damning evidence. Find out what he’s about, and send him on a ride somewhere so we can escape without him following us.”

  She nodded just as the aircraft hit another patch of turbulence, throwing her into Tate and slamming them both against the closed door. In the next instant, the plane pitched in the opposite direction, tossing him into her, and the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign lit up. She landed on her butt on the closed toilet seat with him perched over her.

  Her breasts were heaving. Her lips moist. Her eyes wide. Her legs spread and her skirt hiked up. She looked exactly as she had when they’d been young and fallen in love. Tate swallowed hard, trying to fight off the memories and the way his body was reacting to hers. He’d had other women during these past three years. None of them had turned him on as she had, though he’d never admit that to her. He barely admitted it to himself.

  He and Mal had been wild, unable to keep their hands off each other, making love in all kinds of crazy, dangerous places. Doing it on an airplane had been on their sexual bucket list. He wondered whether she remembered and if she’d be game for checking that one off the list—for old time’s sake.

  This was the perfect setup to join the mile-high club, and damn, with those memories assaulting him and the aura of danger in the air, it was taking every ounce of restraint he had to resist her. The turbulence only added to the thrill and the challenge. Hell, wasn’t turbulently the only way they’d made love those last months together, anyway?

  The plane dropped suddenly. Mal seemingly rose in the air to meet him as he was flung upward toward the ceiling. Her eyes were wide and her pupils dilated. She was either hot for him, or afraid. Maybe both. “Brace yourself.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They came down with a clunk, landing on the toilet seat, Tate sprawled over Mal. She braced her hands against his chest. Nice, he thought. Until she spoke.