The Spy Who Loves Me (11 page)

She checked the caller ID and exhaled with relief. It
was
Drake. She pressed the button to answer. “Yes.”

“Plan B,” he barked, and then hung up.

Diana took the phone away from her ear, stared mutely at it, and realized that she'd never loved Drake more than she did at that very moment.

A
mber slipped off her second shoe and pressed both bare feet against the dashboard, settling in. Finn had put the top down on the convertible, and now the stars winked above them, watching as they winded their way back toward Los Angeles.

She'd pulled her hair back into the familiar ponytail, but a few strands had escaped and were tickling her face. She pushed them away as she twisted to look at him. “So are we heading for another thrill?”

“I hope so,” he said. “But in a more traditional setting.”

“Oh?”

“I'm heading home,” he said. “Since we did so good on the grass, I thought we might try a bed.”

She looked at him in mock horror. “A bed? How incredibly passé.”

“I guess I'm just an old-fashioned guy.”

She licked her lips. “Mmm. How did I manage to completely overlook that part of your personality?”

“Naughty, naughty.”

She pointed a finger at herself. “Me?”

“Hell yes, babe.” His smile was slow and sensual. “But, then again, that's what I like about you.”

She laughed. Not only was she genuinely enjoying their easygoing banter, but their familiarity would hopefully pave the way for her to get some answers from him. The truth was, even though she'd had a thoroughly satisfying evening, it was time to get down to business.

“So long as we end up at
your
apartment,” she said. “Nice girls don't invite men home on the first date.” Of course, nice girls also didn't poke through a man's mail and private papers, either, like she planned to do. But she'd never said she was a nice girl.

“Oh, is
that
what nice girls don't do? Thanks for clearing that up for me.”

“Any time,” she said. She slipped her feet off the dash long enough to rummage on the floorboard for the bottle of water Tom had given her. She twisted the cap off, settled back in her seat, and took a sip. “So how did you get to be a lawyer,” she asked. “Lifelong dream?”

“Not in the least,” he said. “I sort of fell into it.”

“Where'd you go to law school?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“Harvard,” he said.

“That sounds like a pretty expensive fall.”

He frowned. “No kidding. A fall I'm still paying for.”

She nodded. The student loans had shown up on his credit report. But that, unfortunately, wasn't helpful information. She didn't doubt that he'd gone to law school, and even if some agency was covering his loans, they'd still flow the payments through Finn for appearance's sake.

“I'd had a rather eclectic array of jobs,” he said. “And then one day I woke up and realized I ought to do something serious with my life. That was where I landed.”

“And now you're bored.”

He turned to face her. “How do you know that?”

“I see you on your patio or on the sidewalk. You have that look.” That was the literal truth. What she hadn't revealed was just how much time she'd spent watching him and Diana Traynor.

“Not bored so much as underwhelmed.” He shrugged. “I guess I'd pictured
Perry Mason,
but I didn't even get a bad episode of
L.A. Law.”
She wanted to ask another question, but he fired one toward her before she had the chance. “How about you? How'd you end up at a publisher like Machismo?”

“I guess I sort of fell into it, too,” she said.

“How so?”

She pulled off the ponytail holder and shook out her hair while she considered how to answer. The Machismo cover story was solid; Unit 7 really did publish the popular books. Beyond that, though, she was inventing for Finn's benefit. But Amber had learned long ago to mix lies with as much truth as possible. In this case, that philosophy had two benefits. Not only were the lies easier to remember, but if she was right about Finn's status as an operative, the odds were good that his childhood had been as screwed up as hers. If she opened up, then maybe so would he.

“I had a rotten childhood,” she admitted, measuring her words carefully. “Got mixed up with the wrong crowd.” She shook her head. “I was in all sorts of trouble, believe me. And the first time I ended up in juvie court, my mom pretty much washed her hands of me.”

His eyes reflected both shock and disapproval. “No way.”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “The charming woman beside you was a terror in her youth.”

At that, he laughed.
“That
I believe. I meant your parents. Didn't they try to help you?”

She frowned, wondering about his own family. She had little experience with the concept of parents sticking by their kids. She and Brandon both had been orphaned young, even though their parents were very much alive. Maybe some of that was her own fault—she
had
been a terror. But her parents had never made any effort to pull her back, to rein her in. Hell, they barely even spoke to her.

“When I was seven, my sister died. My mom and dad split up about a year later, and I never saw him again. Hell, I hardly saw my mother. She threw herself into her work and hired a nanny. At the time, I thought she resented me for being the one who lived. Now, I don't know. Maybe it just hurt too much. Maybe she just thought it was supposed to be easy. Her motives didn't matter much. All I know is that she ignored me.”

“So you started trying to get her attention.”

“Yeah.”

Finn shook his head. “I'm sorry.”

She considered him. “I take it your childhood was rosier?”

“My childhood was great,” he said. “My parents both worked full-time—no choice, we needed the money—and they stuck me in day care whenever my mom couldn't arrange a night shift. But I was the center of their universe when they were home.”

She tried to imagine, but couldn't quite complete the mental picture. “Do you still see your mom?” She remembered what Tom had said about his father's cancer.

He shook his head. “She passed away last year. They were older—mom was forty-five and sure she'd never have kids when I showed up—so it wasn't entirely unexpected. But it still hurts.”

She reached over and took his hand, clutching tight. “I'm sorry,” she said. She meant it, too. Even though she couldn't truly empathize with the hollowness of losing a parent, she did understand the sadness and loss that seemed to cling to him like a blanket. About loss, Amber knew more than she cared to know.

“It's okay,” he said. He took his hand away to shift gears. “But how did your rotten childhood land you in publishing?”

“A mentor program,” she said. “My current boss, a guy named James Monahan, came to the detention center and did a presentation.” She sat up a little straighter as she talked about it. From her perspective, James was a saint. Who but a saint could have pulled her from the fires of hell?

“What kind of presentation?”

Here, he skirted the truth. “One of those you're in charge of your destiny things. Only this one wasn't all touchy-feely. There was a job attached to it. It was tough….” She paused, remembering just
how
tough. And the possibility of touchy-feely was laughable. The presentation had been an ultimatum—join us or take your chances being tried as an adult on a felony murder charge. She shook her head. “But I survived, and in the end we were trained.”

“Trained?”

“In English and grammar and stuff like that,” she said. Not exactly a lie. She'd taken extensive diction classes. Before the Unit, she'd had no clue how to speak proper English, much less French or Arabic. “I still share an office with one of the other kids, a guy named Brandon Kline.”

“How old were you?” Finn asked.

“Thirteen.”

“And you've been with the publisher ever since?”

She nodded. “I've been with James. He was with a magazine at the time, but later they spun off into publishing books.”

“And your mom?”

She pressed her lips together, as always, surprised at how much the memory still hurt. “She filed papers,” she said. “Terminating parental rights.” She looked Finn in the eye. “Monahan became my legal guardian.” Not that the legalities of it mattered to Amber. From the moment he'd taken her to Unit training, Amber had known the real truth. James cared for her more than her own parents. After a while, Amber quit wondering why. She loved and respected James and she hated her mother. And that was simply that.

“Shit,” Finn whispered.

“Yeah, well…” There really wasn't anything else to say.

“But it sounds like you ended up with your real family.”

Her brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“Mr. Monahan. And your friend. Brandon. It sounds like they've become your family.”

Amber closed her eyes and allowed herself one deep breath. “You're very perceptive,” she said. “They have.” James, Brandon, all of Unit 7.

“Are you doing what you want to do?” he asked.

She blinked, not certain what he meant. “Want to do?”

“With your life, I mean. Did you have any dreams when you were a kid?”

“Only to get my mom back.” She waved the words away before he could respond. “Sorry. Yes,” she said. “I'm doing what I love more than anything in the world.” She lifted her chin, recognizing the opening he'd handed her. “But you're not, are you? What was your childhood dream?”

“It's silly,” he said.

“Dreams often are. Doesn't mean you shouldn't try.”

“I guess I wanted the kind of life you read about in your job. Secret missions and beautiful women and all of that. Something important. Something that made a difference and kept my blood pumping all at the same time.” He laughed. “Of course, first I wanted to be a vet, but when we had to put my dog to sleep when I was twelve, I decided I couldn't handle it.”

“Animal doctor turned James Bond.” She shrugged. “I dunno. Could be a character in one of my books.”

“Secret messages smuggled in dog collars and kibble.”

“And squeaky toys,” she added, then laughed. If James had ever told her she needed to meet a contact named Rover, she would have keeled over right then. “But I thought you
did
become a secret agent,” she said, watching his face even as she pressed her luck.

His expression was one of genuine surprise. But whether it was surprise that she'd make such an idiotic statement or surprise that he'd been discovered, she didn't know. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“You said it,” she said. “Secret identity, remember?”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Right.” He let go of the steering wheel long enough to hold up his hands. “You found me out. Phineus Teague, code-named Python. Licensed to kill.” He turned to her, mirth dancing in his eyes. “But you'll keep my secret, right?”

“Of course,” she said, her tone matching his mock solemnity even though she was fighting back laughter from the ridiculous code name.

“I did interview for the CIA,” he said. “Turned down.”

“Really? I would have thought you'd be just what they were looking for. Well-educated, well-spoken…” She slid her hand along his thigh. “Well-liked by the ladies.”

“I guess they didn't know what they'd be missing.”

“Well, I know,” she said. She tucked her foot up under her. “And I consider myself very, very privileged.”

He faced her again, passion flaring in his eyes. “So tell me, Ms. Robinson. Are you wearing panties?”

She raised an eyebrow. She wasn't, of course. His one bold tug had rendered the panties unwearable. “If you're that curious, I guess you'll just have to take a peek for yourself.”

He stroked his palm over his beard stubble. “It's such a burning question, I'm tempted to pull over and answer it.” He reached over, tracing a hand up the inseam of her pants.

She shivered, the extent of her desire for this man both exciting and unsettling. But the heat of desire in her veins was matched with the euphoria of victory. She'd needed to get close to Finn—so close he'd open up, either his mouth or his apartment. She'd take the information any way she could get it, whether he handed it to her or she stole it off his computer or from the papers in his desk.

His fingers continued their exploration, and she closed her hand over his, stopping him. Her plan had worked beautifully; he was taking her home. “Ah-ah,” she said. “Wait until we get there.” She wanted him, yes, but she didn't want any excuse for them to part ways once they reached the apartment. “Anticipation is good for you.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but I think
you're
bad for me.”

“So's chocolate,” she said. “But I bet you indulge.”