Angel of Desire (6 page)

"That's what they say." But Shade didn't believe he was remembering Rachel Parrish's double any more than he believed they might have been acquaintances in a previous life.

He and Rachel Parrish had known each other. Shade was positive of that.

Now all he had to do was figure out when. And where.

Which shouldn't be all that difficult, he assured himself as the cab pulled up in front of the restaurant. Not with the entire intelligence community at his disposal.

He glanced out the back window to ensure they hadn't been followed. As he exited the cab, Shade decided to get the guys started on the lady's background check right away. Although she seemed harmless enough, it was, he told himself as they entered the restaurant, the prudent, the only, thing to do.

Chapter Three

THE RESTAURANT, nestled amid the restored Victorian town homes and lush gardens of Georgetown, was an oasis of tranquillity in the teeming, bustling capital city.

The tables were draped in pink damask and had been placed far enough apart to permit intimacy between diners. Candles glowed warmly in crystal holders, Impressionist paintings and gilt-framed mirrors adorned walls covered in silk paper. In a far corner, a tuxedo-clad man played Gershwin on a gleaming black Steinway grand.

"Oh, this is absolutely lovely," Rachel enthused after the maître d' had welcomed Shade back to Washington, led them to a plush banquette at the back of the room, handed them a pair of tasseled menus and the wine book with a continental flourish, then departed.

At first she was surprised Shade had chosen such a pretty location for his interrogation, then recalled his talent for putting his intended victim off guard. A person would not be likely to expect a brutal grilling in these genteel surroundings.

Shade glanced around with a decided lack of interest. "It's okay, I guess." They'd been shown to Shade's usual table. Although a long way from the power booths located at the front of the restaurant, it allowed him to view the entire room while engaging in private conversation. It also kept his back to the wall.

He handed her the leather-bound wine list. "I've got some business to attend to. Why don't you pick out something for us to drink?"

Her attention drawn to what appeared to be either an original Monet or a very good copy hanging on the wall behind him, Rachel nodded absently.

Ignoring the bank of pay phones in the hallway leading to the rest rooms, Shade took the service elevator to the second-floor offices.

The manager of the restaurant, long appreciative of the business Shade and his colleagues represented, greeted him as expansively as the maître d' had, hoped he was enjoying his visit to Washington, then left the office without being asked.

Shade claimed the black leather chair behind the desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. An unfamiliar, obviously computerized female voice came onto the line, asking for his security code. Missing the flirtatious banter of the old operators, Shade punched in the new five-digit code he'd acquired just that afternoon.

There was a brief pause as the computer verified the number, then a clicking as the call was processed.

On the other end of the line, in an office in suburban Virginia, the phone was picked up on the very first ring.

"McGee," the voice answered.

"It's me." Shade was also not into proper telephone etiquette.

"Christ," Agent Elizabeth Anne McGee complained when she recognized Shade's voice. "It's only been a couple hours since you left here. I told you we'd put a rush on the job, but you know Tony's a perfectionist."

"I'm not calling about the papers. I want you to run a background check on someone."

"Dammit, Shade," she complained, "I was just on my way out. I have a date."

"A date?"

"Yeah, you remember what that is, don't you, lover? A few drinks, a nice dinner in an out-of-the-way bistro. Maybe, if the guy's real lucky and treats me real nice, a little roll in the hay at the end of the evening. A date," she repeated. "Kinda like what you and I used to do, except we never seemed to get around to the dinner."

"I don't remember you ever complaining."

"I wasn't complaining now. I was just pointing out that I had other plans for my evening. With a guy who doesn't flinch every time he sees me slip into my shoulder holster."

"Does he work for the Company?"

"Hell, no." She laughed, but he thought the sound lacked her usual self-assurance. "He's a cardiologist at Georgetown hospital. And he must be a little cracked, because he's actually talking marriage." Another shaky little laugh. "What do you think, Shade? Can you see me as a doctor's wife?"

"You'd make a damn terrific wife, Liz." Shade meant it. Realizing that he'd never be able to give her what she deserved—a home and a family—was the reason he'd let their affair drift away.

This time her laugh held a bit more of its old spunk. "Why don't you write me a reference letter?" she suggested. "Just in case my feminine persuasion needs a little backup."

"I really need this, sweetheart." His voice was low and warm and compelling. Although he did not recognize it as the same tone he used to coax women into his bed—not that they ever needed all that much coaxing—Agent Elizabeth McGee did.

He heard her resigned sigh resonate over the wires. "If I end up an old maid, it'll be on your head," she grumbled. "Shoot. What's the name?"

"Parrish. Rachel Parrish."

"Rachel?" He could practically see her auburn brow climbing her forehead. "If you're using me to prescreen your bed partners these days, Shade—"

"It's strictly business."

"Sure. And I've got some beachfront property in lovely downtown Beirut I'll sell you for a song."

"Liz." His voice dropped into its lowest registers. "Have I ever, in all the years we've known each other, lied to you?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "No, Shade. You were always unflinchingly honest." She actually sounded hurt, which surprised him, since he'd always prided himself on being completely up-front about his aversion to setting up housekeeping. It wasn't that he didn't like women. A steady stream of them had shared the moment, and his bed, since the summer he'd turned fourteen and had been seduced by the orphanage's new nurse, a married, decidedly lusty older woman in her thirties.

Other women had followed. Although sex, he'd discovered that long-ago sun-drenched day, was easily acquired, no woman had ever made an imprint on the dark interior of his spirit.

"You said Parrish?" Her tone was briskly professional.

"Rachel," he confirmed.

There was a tapping of fingernails on computer keys. "Age?"

"I don't know exactly. Mid-twenties. Five foot four, one hundred and five pounds, dark blond hair, gray eyes."

"Aha," Liz murmured, as if he'd just confirmed her previous suspicion. "Where's the lady from?"

"She said she was born in Massachusetts, and I think her accent, if it's not faked, backs her up. But she also hedged when I asked her where she's been living recently."

"No problem. Social Security and tax records will have that." More tap-tap-tapping. "Occupation?"

"Midwife." When he didn't receive the disbelief he'd expected, he added, "She says having kids at home is back in fashion." His voice went up on the end, turning it into a question.

"It is. And not just on those leftover hippie communes in northern California, either."

He laughed at that. "You know me too well, Liz."

"I always did, Shade. Which explains why I gave up on you and decided there was something to be said for cardiology."

Shade couldn't think of anything to say to that. It was, after all, true.

"So, can you give me anything else about this Rachel Parrish?" Elizabeth McGee asked.

"Sorry, that's it."

"Don't worry. If the lady's not in my data banks, she doesn't exist. By tomorrow morning, I'll know her shoe size, the name of her hairdresser, any other jobs she might have had and every guy she's gone to bed with since her senior prom."

Personally, Shade didn't think that last list would be very long. He wondered what Liz would say if he suggested she might want to check any nearby convents for runaway nuns. Or missing vestal virgins.

There was something about Rachel Parrish. Something so—Shade searched for the proper word—
undefiled
. An archaic term, he considered, after it had popped into his mind. But strangely, it fit.

"Mainly I want to know if she's intelligence," he revealed. "And whatever ties she's got to Yaznovia."

There was a moment's silence on the other end of the line.

"Be careful," Elizabeth McGee said finally. "This cockeyed plan of yours is going to be hard enough to pull off without getting involved with Mata Hari."

"Piece of cake," Shade promised. He'd been told his entire life that his plans wouldn't—couldn't—work. Which always made him all the more determined to prove his detractors wrong.

And this time, he thought as he hung up the phone, he could not afford to fail. Because this time, it was personal.

RACHEL STUDIED the wine list, staring at the mind-boggling choices. She was trying to decipher the myriad foreign and American choices, but she might as well have been attempting to read Sanskrit.

"Does
mademoiselle
have a special request?" a deep, all-too-familiar voice inquired, breaking into her concentration.

She glanced up, clearly startled. "Joshua? What are you doing here?"

"Playing the piano. And a very fine instrument it is, too," he commented, flexing his fingers with overt satisfaction. "Did you like my rendition of 'Rhapsody In Blue'?"

"To tell you the truth, I didn't even notice." She glanced nervously around, worried that Shade would return at any minute. "Surely a sudden musical urge didn't bring you all this way."

"Of course not. I came to check on you. How are you?" He leaned close, looking into her eyes, seeing all the way to her soul.

"I'm fine."

"You looked pale in the tavern."

"I just needed a slight period of adjustment. I'm feeling much better now. Really."

He seemed willing to take her words at face value. "Have you deterred Shade from his mission?"

"Not yet. Really, Joshua, these things take time."

It was clearly not the answer he'd been hoping for. He arched a silver patrician brow. "How much time?"

A flare of impatience burned away the last of the cobwebs fogging her mind. "I don't know. Shade is very intransigent. And since I've been forbidden to tell him the truth, I must find some other way to reach him."

"Work quickly," Joshua advised.

Rachel recognized the tone. All too well. She sighed. "You're here to bring me my deadline, aren't you?" When she'd left, that last detail had not yet been agreed upon.

"Yes." His warm gaze offered encouragement, and a warning she knew would be folly to ignore. "You have five days."

"Five days!" Realizing that she'd raised her voice, she quickly glanced around to ensure she hadn't drawn any undue attention. "It will take at least two or three days to even get to Yaznovia."

The brow lifted again, this time higher. "Surely you do not plan to accompany Shade to Yaznovia."