A Spy Like Me

By

Laura Pauling

Redpoint Press

A Spy Like Me: Book 1

Copyright 2012 Laura Pauling

First e-book edition, 2012

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the
copyright holder, except for brief passages in connection with a
review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog or
broadcast.

This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the
author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this
novel are used in a fictional manner.

Summary: After dodging bullets on a first date, Savvy
must decide how far she’ll go to protect the ones she loves.

Edited by Leigh T. Moore

ebook ISBN: 978-0-9852327-1-9

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Join Mailing List

Thanks to my loving husband for all his
support. And thanks to Rylee, Trevor and Evan for providing the
true adventure in life. I love you guys!

Thanks to all the readers—old and young—who
long for adventure. I hope you find it.

I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect date
– the Eiffel Tower, a night in Paris, and holding hands with the
waiter I’d been flirting with for weeks. Nothing could ruin it.

“I have a surprise.” Malcolm smiled, flashing
his dimples. “Close your eyes.”

I huffed before shutting them. “Fine.”

I’m not really a surprise-me kind of girl.
Ever since I’d moved to France with my dad, I’d wanted normal.
Cornflakes with heaps of sugar for breakfast, jelly and pepperoni
sandwiches at lunch, and a language I could understand. No more
parlez-vous francais.
Give me a healthy dose of swearing,
loud-mouthed, impatient Americans, thanks.

“Hey, Savvy.” He nudged my arm. “No
peeking.”

“I’m not. I swear.”

Okay, maybe I was a tiny bit. With my eyes
shut tight, in almost complete darkness, I could hear the hum of
the passing motorboats, the traffic from the road, and the leaves
above me, whispering.

Malcolm’s warm hand pulled me forward, and I
stumbled in the dark. The sounds and smells in the evening air
became sharper: the tangy River Seine and the laughter of couples
nearby. My imagination went wild. Maybe he’d surprise me with a
boat ride. Flower petals would be scattered at our feet, and
violinists would be playing on the bank, as we passed, holding
hands and locking lips.

I tripped for the third time, straining to
hear the lap of the water. “Are we almost there?”

“Soon,” Malcolm said.

Grass tickled my ankles, and I gripped his
hand tighter. But he let go and pulled away. I heard the unzipping
of a backpack. So maybe it wasn’t a boat ride. Maybe my surprise
would be a hot air balloon flight over the sizzling sunset of Paris
where we’d toast to the many romantic nights ahead of us.

“Surprise!”

I opened my eyes and gasped at the sight
before me. It wasn’t a boat ride or a trip in a hot air balloon,
which frankly are probably highly overrated and a bit cheesy.
Instead, he’d laid out a checkered quilt with a full spread of
sparkling cider and mini-tarts slathered with all kinds of berries
and drizzled with chocolate.

I gasped. “Wow!”

“I have a confession.” Malcolm looped his
fingers in mine.

Oh no. I tensed and pulled away. I should’ve
known it couldn’t last. “What?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“What’s the confession?” I urged.

His cheeks turned pink. “I overheard you and
your friend talking about your work the other day when I took your
breakfast order. I didn’t mean to spy on you. And this morning I
talked with your dad about a possible job with Spy Games.”

“Really.” I drew out the word, while my mind
raced.

So this whole date was a set up so Malcolm
could have an in with my dad and his crazy business of letting
people run around Paris pretending to be spies? They at least paid
to do it. In my fantasies, this date was about me
.
Not about
a cute boy using me to supplement his income.

“Yeah, I know it was kinda stupid.” Malcolm
kneeled on the blanket as he laid out fancy cloth napkins and
poured the cider. A gentle breeze rippled the sleeves of his shirt
and teased the hair above his ears. Cider splashed out of the
plastic, fluted glass. He smiled awkwardly and held it out to
me.

“Forgive me?”

The tips of my fingers brushed against his
when I accepted the glass. “Well, I don’t know. Espionage is a
serious crime.” I paced in front of the quilt.

Malcolm lifted his hands, palms out, in an
act of surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

I spoke in my sternest most lawyer-like
voice. “I want to believe you liked me for me. That you waited on
our table because you thought I was cute and you liked the way I
laughed.”

“Why do you think—”

“Whoops.” I put a finger to my lips. “The
defense is not allowed to speak. You’ll get your turn later.
Maybe.”

Malcolm sipped his sparkling cider, which I
promptly whipped away from him. Some of it splashed out on his
jeans. “No cider while on trial.”

He snorted, trying to hold back his
laugh.

I stifled a grin and continued my
interrogation. “I’d hoped for days you’d been building up the
courage to ask me out with sweaty palms and an out-of-control
heartbeat. The whole shebang.”

It’s how I felt waiting for him to ask me
out. Once I’d admitted it, I couldn’t look him in the face. He
reached for a strawberry tart, but I slapped his hand.

“No, no, no. No indulging until proven
innocent.” I spied the cloth napkins. Perfect. “Hands behind your
back.”

He complied with a silly grin. “Do I get my
one phone call and a lawyer?”

My heart fluttered, but I stayed on task.
Using my famous Spy Games knots, I tied the napkins around his
wrists, tightly. My hostages could never escape. I grabbed a
strawberry tart, because prosecuting a spy makes one hungry, and
continued my attack.

“When asking a girl out on a date, especially
in Paris, certain expectations are involved. The boy should spend
hours planning the date and picking out the perfect desserts and
the right clothes to wear to impress her.”

“I object!” Malcolm blurted out. “Hours?
That’s ridiculous.”

I stomped my foot and shouted. “Order in the
court room!”

People walking by glanced our way, and even a
mime was distracted from his act, so I kneeled and brought my face
inches from his.

“Was that an admission of guilt?” I said in a
quieter voice. “Did you not put much forethought into the planning
of this date? Did you not truly care? And is it true that your only
intention and motivation were to get closer to the girl for your
career purposes?”

He leaned forward and before I could
officially object, he kissed me.

I jerked away, spluttering and gasping, but
completely delighted. “The defense is not allowed to sway the
verdict. That will be a penalty.”

“What’re you going to do? Splash more cider
on my jeans?” He tilted his head, completely underestimating the
girl he’d offended.

I narrowed my eyes, and a grin spread across
my face as an utterly evil idea sprang into mind. I sipped the
sparkling cider, letting the tart liquid coat my throat. With shaky
fingers, I rushed to unbutton his pants and slide them off,
revealing navy blue boxer briefs. I pulled off his crisp white tee
and let it stay bunched by his hands. Yum. Nice view.

Malcolm spoke in a husky voice. “Are you
flirting with the defense, Ms. Bent?”

I ignored the sudden desire to drop the case
and pushed forward. “Once you were close to the girl, the plan was
to infiltrate her father’s company. Do you deny it?”

“There’s more to the story,” he murmured, his
gaze lingering on my lips.

The sounds of Paris at night faded and for a
moment I could pretend we were like all the other couples sprawled
across the city. Except, we weren’t. Boys don’t play games with me
and get away with it.

“I proclaim you guilty on all accounts for
espionage and for asking a girl out under false pretenses.
Punishable by death.”

He moved to kiss me again, and I was tempted
to give in to his tactics. But with a laugh, I stepped back. “The
court has decided to let you off with an easy sentence.”

He waited for his sentence, but his flushed
face told me he was thinking, hoping that I’d come back and kiss
him. He’d underestimated me. This whole courtroom drama might be a
joke, but inside, I was a bit hurt that this date wasn’t really a
date. That it was just a way into Spy Games for him.

I cleared my throat in a judicial sort of
way. “You are hereby sentenced to fifteen minutes of intense
embarrassment by sitting in your underwear in public.”

His face turned a bit pale as he realized I
meant what I said. I felt only slightly bad.

“
Au revoir
for now,” I whispered, and
grabbed a smashed tart covered in strawberries because something
that good should never go to waste.

And then, I was outta there for the full term
of the sentence. Almost.

About two steps away and one bite into the
tart, I heard a groan. Was he okay? Would his circulation get cut
off? Maybe I should loosen the ties. I turned. Malcolm lay in the
grass. Just like I left him.

Except for the blood running in rivulets down
his arm.

All I did was tie his wrists together and
take off his clothes.

For a joke.

A bit of fun revenge.

I swayed, dizzy on my feet. The sounds of
Paris rushed around me, swirling into a crescendo. My eyes were
trained on the boy, my date, in front of me. Minutes ago he’d
kissed me, offered me sparkling cider. He’d smiled and invited me
into his world, his life. Now he appeared to be unconscious.

He groaned again, and I ran to his side.
Blood gushed down his arm, leaving a trail and dripping onto the
grass. No. No. No. How? What had happened? I’d turned away for
three seconds! Only a serious injury could cause that much
blood.

Like a bullet wound.

But I never heard a gunshot. He was a waiter.
I was a nice girl having her first date in Paris. Things like
getting shot didn’t happen in situations like that.

Following my instincts from watching too many
crime shows, I pressed the quilt against his arm to stop the
bleeding. But I had no idea if it was working, especially in the
growing darkness. Slowly, I pulled the quilt off and peered at his
arm. The smell of blood and the protruding flap of skin sent my
stomach into upheaval. I quickly covered it up.
DOCTOR,
my
mind screamed.