Compact with the Devil: A Novel (41 page)

“I think Kit might offer her a job,” said Nikki.

“Really?” asked Jane, making a face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The company needs people like her.”

Nikki shrugged. “Yeah, but sometimes dealing with all the bureaucratic BS makes another job look tempting. Like Colombia. If I had to work under Camille, I’d be out the door.”

“Speaking of Camille,” said Jenny, “does anyone know what she’s going to tell Mrs. M? She smoothed things over with the Paris branch, but Mrs. M might still be a little pissed depending on how shit goes down.”

“Why?” asked Jane, ignoring the safety video and rifling through the SkyMall magazine.

“I don’t know; misappropriation of resources, your little vacation to Germany, disobeying a direct order. I’m sure she can think of more,” said Jenny.

“Meh,” said Nikki. “She sent you two to help out. Plus, Kit said he’d make sure Camille didn’t make waves. She might still be mad about Colombia, but since we pulled everything out OK here … I think it’ll turn out to be a wash. Plus, she seems sort of calmed down now that everything’s out in the open with Kit.”

“I’m going to get these lawn flamingos with the nine interchangeable holiday outfits,” said Jane, pointing at the picture in the SkyMall magazine. Nikki thought of a bird whorehouse and smiled.

“You don’t have a lawn,” Jenny said.

“I have a very large planter.”

“OK, then.”

“And I’m thinking about the wall-sized crossword puzzle.”

“Do you do crosswords?” asked Ellen.

“Not really, but it could be a fun party thing.”

“What kind of parties are you throwing?” asked Nikki in disbelief.

“I’m a geek, Nikki; I associate with other geeks and that’s who comes to my parties. The fact that I get to hang with you and Jenny and Ellen is just a quirk of fate.”

Nikki leaned back in her seat as the plane threw itself skyward. “Fate. Yeah, she’s quirky all right.”

Jane looked over with a sympathetic smile and patted Nikki’s knee. “Chin up, young person. The day’s not over yet.”

Nikki closed her eyes and prepared to sleep away the flight. She was too tired to keep her chin up.

Nikki wearily climbed into her car. Her post-mission debrief with Mrs. M had not gone well. Mrs. Merrivel had been politely expressive on the nature of professionalism.

“Carrie Mae’s very existence is a monument to the discretion of our agents,” Mrs. Merrivel had said, smiling slightly. “Although I wish to push our agency into the modern age, I don’t think we should do so at the expense of the values that made us what we are today. Don’t you agree?”

“I agree entirely,” said Nikki firmly. “The incident with Z’ev was entirely accidental.”

“Mmm … yes. And what about Kit Masters?”

“What about Kit?” asked Nikki, confused. Mrs. Merrivel sighed and pulled a tabloid newspaper from her briefcase.

“The French branch sent me an advance copy of the
Star
—it’s only in the European version, thank God.”

“Oh dear,” said Nikki, staring at the picture of her and Kit
on the cover with a horrified fascination. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You do have a penchant for choosing the most inconvenient men,” Mrs. Merrivel said. “I mean, with Kit’s mother being an agent, he might be considered well within the dating pool, but don’t you think that his being an international pop star might make being a part of a secret organization a bit difficult?”

“Yes,” she said dejectedly. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I can’t be too mad,” said Mrs. M, her eyes twinkling. “Cano is back in prison, Kit has actually donated a significant sum to the Carrie Mae Foundation due to your performance, and Camille has requested a leave of absence to spend time with Kit. And I understand that she’s also reconciled with her brother-in-law?”

“Duncan,” said Nikki. “She’s finally realized he loves Kit as much as she does.”

Mrs. M nodded as if well satisfied.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be happy about that, to tell the truth,” said Nikki. “Since it means losing a branch director for a while.”

“Jane wasn’t the only one who needed a vacation. When Camille returns she’ll be much more effective. How was Jane’s vacation, by the way?”

“Uh …,” said Nikki.

“Should I be sending her out for some additional training? Or do you think attempting to take on Voges alone was a one-time event?”

Nikki held her breath for the count of one—just long enough to make her decision.

“Knowing Jane? Send her for additional training. Having gotten away with it once, she’s only going to try it again.”

Mrs. Merrivel nodded. “Just what I was thinking. I should warn
you that there may be some fallout from the Nina Alvarez situation, and you seem to have annoyed the Paris branch director as well.”

“What kind of fallout?” asked Nikki, dreading the answer.

“Undetermined at this time,” said Mrs. Merrivel. “And it may yet be avoided. You know, although I didn’t wish for it to happen, politically, it’s probably better that you broke up with Z’ev.”

Nikki nodded numbly. Yeah, politically, it was better.

Mrs. Merrivel continued. “Anyway, go home. Get some sleep. We’ll worry about all this tomorrow.”

Once in the Impala, Nikki rolled down the window and let the warm California breeze sweep across her face. L.A. in January wasn’t so very warm, but it was definitely warmer than France. She was nearly home when she was startled by her phone.

Glancing at her phone, she saw her mother’s name on the display. With a sigh she pushed the “answer” button.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You never called back,” said her mother icily. Nikki felt her guilt meter surge.

“I’ve been busy, Mom,” said Nikki. “Besides, I told you my phone was broken.”

“Did your fingers break too? You could have picked up any phone and dialed my number. I’m assuming you remember it?”

“Yes, Mom, but …” Nikki started to say.

“But you were too busy cheating on your boyfriend with another man? Was that it, hmm?”

“Ah crap,” said Nikki. Kit Masters was definitely something that she had been intending to keep in the “mother doesn’t need to know” file.

“Front page of the
Star
, Nicole. Stacey Marlick went to Canada for the weekend and guess what she brought back? Guess, Nicole.”

“A copy of the
Star
?”

“That’s right. She trots it into the office this morning and says, ‘Isn’t this your daughter?’ And I look at it and sure enough, there’s you, in what can only be described as, and I quote, ‘a passionate lip-lock.’ When I was a girl we called that playing tonsil hockey. Then I read the article and it says this guy, who they claim is famous but who I’ve never heard of, was spotted earlier in the week at a bar, singing karaoke and generally ‘behaving very much like a couple’ with the ‘mysterious redhead.’”

“Oh dear,” said Nikki when her mother paused. She’d been hoping the
Star
had limited itself to just the picture. Apparently, there was an entire article as well.

“‘Oh dear’?” repeated her mother. “That’s all you have to say? Who is this guy, Nikki?”

“Kit Masters. Biggest thing since Robbie Williams.”

“Who’s Robbie Williams?”

“Um, he’s kind of like Che Guevara: someone everyone but Americans knows about.”

“Who the hell is Che Guevara?”

“He was a South American revolutionary.”

“You’re dating a South American revolutionary?”

“No, Mom, he’s a pop singer. I’m just saying … Sorry, never mind, forget I said anything. I just went a little left-wing on you there.”

“Well, don’t. It’s not funny.”

“Sorry,” said Nikki, pulling into her parking spot and resting her head against the steering wheel, feeling too tired to defend herself.

“What about Z’ev?” asked Nell. “You know you’ve totally blown it if he sees a copy of this, right? He’s going to know you’ve been cheating on him.”

“I broke up with him, remember? It’s not cheating,” answered Nikki, head still on the steering wheel, one hand reaching for the trunk release. She heard the trunk pop and with a sigh opened her door, swinging her legs out onto the cracked cement of her parking lot. She rested there another moment, gathering her strength for the final trek to her apartment. She was looking forward to crawling into a bed that didn’t smell like a hotel.

“Uh-huh. Bet it didn’t feel a thing like cheating, what with you still being in love with him,” said her mother.

“Mom!” She couldn’t believe her mom had mentioned the L-word. “I never said I was in love with him. And besides, are you telling me you don’t like a rock star better than an ambassador?”

“Well, rock stars do make more money, but really, they’re not very dependable, and the
Star
says he has a drug problem.”

“He went to rehab,” said Nikki, feeling defensive on Kit’s behalf. “He’s very committed to his recovery.”

“Committed to his recovery and every groupie in his immediate area,” said Nell, talking over her. “And so Z’ev cancels a few plans? At least he’s got a steady job. And he sent me a card for my birthday and he was very polite on the phone. Although”—Nikki could hear the sound of the
Star
being riffled through on the other end of the phone—“this Kit Masters is kind of cute. What’s this about some masked-gunmen publicity stunt?”

“Oh, it was just a thing at the
Bonne Année
show,” said Nikki carelessly. Back on the job, she got up briskly and opened the trunk, pulling out her backpack and carry-on.

“I thought you were in the UK,” whined Nell. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Paris? I would have asked for stuff.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nikki. “I got you the perfume you like.”

“Hmm,” answered Nell. “Why were you even with this guy? I thought it was a work thing.”

“The foundation was hoping Kit would donate a lot of money, and his makeup artist broke her leg. So I did a little pinch-hitting in the makeup department and got the donation,” answered Nikki glibly.

“Really?” Nell sounded impressed. “Are you sure that wasn’t all you were hitting?”

“Mom!” exclaimed Nikki, slightly outraged.

“Sorry,” said Nell, sounding unrepentant. “Have makeup bag, will travel, I guess. I wish my work would send me to exotic places.” There was a pause while Nell flipped a few more pages and Nikki tried to get her purse and carry-on into synchronous orbit. Nikki staggered to her mailbox and opened it; mail burst forth as if it had been waiting to ambush her. With a sigh, Nikki bent down to sort through the pile on the floor. Junk, three bills, and two Christmas cards from Thailand. Nikki smiled, recognizing Laura Daniels’s address and Lawan Chinnawat’s careful script. She jammed the mail in the outer pocket of her bag for later perusal.

“When are you coming home?” asked her mother, apparently losing interest in Kit. “The flights are really cheap right now. I have Christmas presents for you.”

“I was thinking at the end of the month,” said Nikki, mentally reviewing her calendar and feeling guilty. “I have presents for you too.”

“Are you going to see the rock star again?” asked Nell.

“I don’t know, Mom,” said Nikki, marching up the stairs to her front door and shoving the key into her lock. “He’ll be in L.A. in a couple of months, for a benefit concert or something, but I might be traveling again.”

The door swung open and hit the wall with a Sheetrock-denting crash. Her carry-on slipped down her arm, tangling with her
already dangling purse. She half kicked the bag, half shuffled into the entryway, lugging the backpack after.

“Mom,” she said, looking into her living room. “I’m going to have to call you back. I have company.”

“How can you have company? You just got home.”

“Believe me, I’m aware of that.”

“OK, well, fine. Call me later.”

“You bet,” said Nikki.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Z’ev sat comfortably in the Swedish armchair reading a copy of the
Star
. It was a testament to the photographer that the picture was better than the usual grainy mess of a slouching celebrity, actually veering dangerously close to artwork. Kit had one arm around her waist and the other gently clasped around her neck. The Ferris wheel glowed behind them and a shower of fireworks illuminated them in a golden wash of light. Her coat hung open, revealing the micromini and mile-high boots, not to mention quite a bit of Nikki’s thighs. The cider bottle dangled negligently from her hand, and around them the crowd had blurred the photograph with movement. Only Nikki and Kit had held perfectly still. The photo seemed to capture everything a Paris New Year’s ought to be.

“Have a nice New Year?” asked Z’ev, putting the
Star
down.

Nikki dropped her bags on the hallway floor with a thud. “How’d you get in?”

“I picked the lock.”

“Lovely,” said Nikki. “Is there something I can help you with or were you just in the neighborhood?”

“Yes, you can help me understand what my girlfriend is doing on the cover of the
Star
with a British pop star.”

“I don’t know, how was your South American vacation?” answered Nikki spitefully.

“We didn’t go to South America.”

“One of us did!” Nikki shot back.

“No, I didn’t.” But he seemed less righteous in his denial.

“Oh!” Nikki was too outraged for words and could only sputter. “Liar!” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out the picture of Z’ev and Nina Alvarez. “This isn’t you, then?” She waved the picture in front of his face. He snatched it out of her hand, frowning.

“Where did you get this?”

“I work for Carrie Mae, Z’ev; we have franchises in fifty-seven countries! And Nina Alvarez is one of our contributors.”

“It was work related,” said Z’ev through clenched teeth, crushing the photo into a ball.

“You looked up Nina Alvarez, didn’t you? After I told you that information was confidential, you looked her up.”

“All right, fine—yes, I did. And you were right, she needed help.”

“She needed help and you …” Nikki wanted to say “wouldn’t let me take care of it” but remembered herself in time. “And you canceled our vacation?”