Agent of Desire (Jessica Booker) (2 page)

“Thank you.” I put it together with the other flower. The lily is new, strong and fresh, while the rose is tired and wilted. It’s the oddest pair I’ve ever seen.

“Well,” he says. “I guess I’ll see y’around.” He turns to leave.

I smell the rose. “Wait,” I say.

It turns out the American’s name is Lincoln. He’s just out of college—as I suspected. He majored in forestry at the University of Oregon, and has a scar just below his
ribcage. I don’t know how he got the scar because by the time I found it we had already given up on the whole talking thing.

If Agent Sims could take his time getting to me, I had a few minutes to spare before I had to dive into my new assignment. Besides, after the way Agent Sims and Lincoln had been looking at me, I needed a release.

College graduate Lincoln was the perfect outlet. We stumble up the hotel steps, pawing at each other on our way to his hotel room. My body moves against his hands, needing his touch, and pressing hard against it. There’s no time for foreplay, and no need to pretend that this is anything other than raw desire. My body is so hot I think I’m going to combust.

Halfway down the hall to his room he pushes me against the wall, pressing his hard body against mine as he takes my breasts in his hands with no regard for the fact that someone could come by at any moment. His thumbs brush lightly over my nipples, making me arch into him. Leaning down to kiss me again, he bites and licks my lips
, and I grab his hips and pull him even closer as the kiss intensifies. And then he’s pulled me away from the wall and we are moving again. By the time we make it to his room, the sexual tension is too much. I rip off his T-shirt and he tries to do the same to my dress, but I delicately shove him on the bed.

I look down at him, lying on his back. I want to take charge, to have my way with him, but as I reach back and unzip my dress, a thought reaches through my buzzed and horny mind, halting me where I stand. Sims words play back in my head. “You’re not ready for this kind of job.”

I re-zip my dress.

How had I not caught it? A year working a desk job in Ireland had made me lax. I should have noticed. He said, “
this
kind of job.” Which can only mean that my new job requires more skill, more experience, and might even involve some of the adrenaline-packed excitement I signed up for.

Lincoln is sprawled out on the bed, hovering somewhere between turned-on and passing out, if that’s even possible.

I search for my shoes. One of them is by the door, but I can’t find the other one. Lincoln’s eyes follow me as I move about the room. He doesn’t get up. Poor guy is confused.

I find the calla lily on the chair where I’d tossed it with the dying rose. I have to get going. I have a job to do. “Sorry, I have to go. Thanks for the flower.” I pick up the flowers and walk to the door with my shoe.

“Hey,” he says.

I stop to look at him.

“Uh,” he runs his hand through his messed up hair. “Call me?”

I nod and walk out. My other shoe is in the hallway, thank goodness, because they look really good with this dress.

* * *

In my room, I pull open my agency-issue laptop. A new message blips into my inbox. It’s double encrypted, of course. My laptop is secure; I send and receive messages from it all the time, but they’re not able to email
this
information without added security. It’s too sensitive. I open the email, and the encryption key box pops up.

I pull the card off the lily and turn it over, typing the series of numbers and letters on the back of the card into the key box. The computer thinks for a moment before opening up my documents.

From the mission summary I can already tell this is no desk job.

A French technology company, Intelex, is working on a program that has the ability to take over and shut down any website anywhere. I’m no hack, but I imagine that in this age of communication technology, someone might be able to shut down entire countries with this program.

The French are our friends, our allies. But this is a private company, and there is a very real possibility that they could sell this technology to the highest bidder. We have no guarantee that said party would be a friend of the United States. As long as that is a possibility, the U.S. needs to know how the technology works, and how to defend against it. So I’ll be stealing it.

The information in the email gives me a list of codes and contacts, and outlines my next steps, the first of which is to make
friends
with a man named Geoffrey Pinot.

This is part of the job—a job that women have been doing just as long as men. A job we can do better. We have something that men don’t have: the ability to turn even the most levelheaded control freak into a blob of
putty.

Most of the trainers said it was up to our discretion, and that we never had to use sex unless we felt it was necessary. Wink, wink. They also said that we should do whatever it takes to get the job done. For my last assignment, it wasn’t an issue because it wasn’t that type of job. This time, though, it could definitely go there.

The one thing that was always in the back of my mind was, what if the dude was ugly?

I was about to find out. These attachments include photos. I close my eyes as I click open his headshot. Peeking through one squinted eye, I allow his head to come into focus.

He doesn’t look that bad. He can’t be more than thirty. That’s a plus. I don’t like the idea of having to go for some old guy, at least not on my first real mission. Geoffrey has potential. He has dark hair and olive skin, maybe Mediterranean. His face is slender with a defined jaw and a slightly crooked nose. In the photo, he’s clean-shaven and wears dark-framed glasses, making him look straight-laced, like the wife-and-two-kids type, but according to his file he’s never been married. Not sure I’d do him in my free time, but he’s not bad.

Someone has already been watching him for a while. There are several surveillance photos of him at work and near his home. There is also a detailed schedule of what he does each day. My first move is to initiate contact with him on his way back from the café. He goes to the same one every evening and has a regular route home.

I berate myself again for stopping to play with Lincoln instead of going straight up to my room. According to my computer it’s nine p.m.; I just might make it if I hurry.

I’m about to log out of my email and pack up my things when a new email pops into my inbox. I click on it and another encryption key box pops up. I grab the card from the lily again, and type in the code.

Invalid key.

I try the code again.

Invalid key.

I run through the rules in my head involving encrypted emails. We are not to talk of them. We are not to respond to them. We are not to talk to our handlers about them. But we never covered what to do if we couldn’t open one.
Crap
.

I try the code on the back of the card a few more times, checking my caps lock. I even try restarting my computer. But nothing works. What could be in the email? Was it a correction on the details from the last email? Did they make a mistake and send this to the wrong agent?

I don’t want to leave it, but I have to go. I’ve received my assignment. Geoffrey is about to leave his coffee shop and head home. It’s time to move. I close the laptop, grab my purse, and head out the door.

I forgot how romantic it is to walk down the River Seine at night. The streetlights are rose tinted, making the entire city of Paris look like it’s floating in colored water. The night air is warm, and brings the smell of French coffee from one of the many cafés. The aroma itself is strong enough to give me an extra kick of energy.

I’m wearing the perfect outfit for initial contact. The dress has already gotten me two flowers from two different men tonight, and with the wine still working to relax me, I’m ready. I’m also running really late.

Geoffrey lives in an apartment just down and across the river from my hotel. I make my way to Pont Neuf, by far my favorite bridge in Paris. Cars pass by me as I rush along the sidewalk, wishing I had time to stop and sit in one of the round benches built into the beautiful bridge. The Eiffel Tower announces itself, lit up in the distance. It really is a gorgeous night, but I have no time for sightseeing.

I continue on, jogging to within a block of Geoffrey’s apartment and stop, searching the environs for my target.

A man crosses the street, heading for the door of his building. I’m ninety percent sure it’s him. I’m used to running in heels, but the stone slab sidewalks of Europe are less forgiving than the flat sidewalks in the U.S. I’m almost to the door when my heel catches on a stone and I tumble to the ground.

I’m close enough now to see the man. Sure enough, it’s Geoffrey. He sees me tumble and makes his way over to help.

Fast thinking is how a good agent gets her job done.

I haven’t hurt myself, other than a skinned knee, but he doesn’t know that.

“
Mademoiselle, est-ce que je peux vous aider?
” he asks, reaching a hand out to me.

I take it, wincing as he pulls me effortlessly to my feet. “Shit,” I say. I’m fluent in French, having lived here for a while as a child, but tonight I will be playing the part of a distressed American tourist.

“Are you okay?” he asks in flawless English, holding me steady.

“I think I’ve sprained my ankle.” I move in closer to him, brushing my breasts against his arm.

“I can call you a taxi.”

Great, he’s not into
women, and no one thought to check
. Then I catch him ogling my chest.

Win.

“I think I just need somewhere to sit for a minute.” I
accidentally
brush my hand over the front of his pants as I say this. Yeah, for sure he’s into women. He already has a partial hard-on.

“Well.” He looks over at his apartment building. “I live just there, if you would like to come in and rest for a moment. I could make you some tea.”

Tea? His last name is
Pinot
, and he’s offering me
tea
?

I smile. “That would be wonderful, Monsieur...”

“Pinot,” he says. “Geoffrey Pinot.”

I stifle a smirk. “Nice to meet you
, Monsieur Pinot. I’m Lori Wade.”

“Geoffrey. Please call me Geoffrey.”

I take his hand from my arm and wrap it around my waist, and he helps me to the door. Tonight my only mission is to get eyes inside. His apartment is already bugged. It has been for weeks. I need to make sure that when he leaves for work tomorrow, he takes a tiny camera and bug with him. Without knowing it, of course. That’s the tricky part.

His apartment is on the top floor. We ride up in one of those quaint French elevators. The capacity plaque says it can hold five, but even with just the two of us, we stand close enough that I can feel his body heat and smell a light hint of cologne mixing with his own musky scent.

His place, in contrast, has vaulted ceilings and huge windows facing the river. The kitchen is off on one side, and there is a hallway that leads to the rest of the apartment on the other.

He settles me in the living room and goes to the kitchen for tea. As he leaves, I take the time to check him out. He’s wearing a
fitted, blue button-up shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and trim frame. He is tall and lean, and though his dark suit pants are loose, I can still make out his firm ass.

When he comes back with tea, I can’t help but look at his package. Even without a full erection, he’s quite large. I clench my sex in anticipation, letting my eyes flow up his body to his face.

He sets a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table in front of me and takes a seat at the far end of the sofa. This is going to be harder than I thought. But I like a challenge.

I pull the pin out of my hair, letting my long auburn hair fall against my shoulders, and run my hands through it, shaking it out. Then I scoot in, claiming the middle cushion on the couch. “So, where’s Mrs. Pinot?” I ask.

“I’m not married.” He looks at the floor as he says what I already know.

“How on earth does someone as charming as you stay single?” I ask the question in an attempt to warm up the conversation, but the truth is, I’m also dying to know the answer.

“I had a girlfriend a few years ago. We were engaged, but it didn’t work out.” He runs a hand through his short dark hair and forces a smile. “I guess I haven’t found the time to date since then. It’s hard to find the right woman when you work sixty hours a week.” He laughs, and his smile deepens, which makes his brown eyes sparkle behind his glasses.

All I can think about is how much fun it would be to kiss his smiling lips.

“You must love your work,” I say and lick my lips.

His eyes move down to my mouth and he swallows. “I do.”

I inch closer to him. “Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Pinot. Geoffrey.” I put my hand on his thigh and gently squeeze. His thigh is rock hard. He works out. I’m going to enjoy this. “I guess you might say that I owe you.”