Blonde Ops (21 page)

As soon as their backs were turned, there were more quick kisses—on my temple, my cheek, and then oh-too-briefly my lips—and then we were following, hand in hand.

Outside, the cul-de-sac was no longer empty. Cars lined up, jammed into every available space. To one side, scooters and Vespas were lined up on the sidewalk. A block away we were able to wave down a taxi, which took us back to the office in silence, all of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. Mine danced between Dante and Taj.

Dante was fair, Taj, dark. Smiling came easily to Dante, smirking to Taj. Dante was solid, muscular, and golden, like a lion. Taj was lithe and sleek and so quiet you didn't know he was there—until he wanted you to. Dante was warm and safe. Taj was a jaguar. He felt dangerous.

And I like them both.

We arrived at the office and Kevin let us in. Taj and I collected our backpacks.

“I don't have to go home yet,” I heard Sophie say to Kevin when we joined up with them in the common room. He turned to us.

“Taj, will you make sure she gets back to the hotel?”

Taj nodded, and we got back into the cab—both of us in the back seat this time.

“See you tomorrow!” Sophie gave me a little wave as she shut the door.

“Where?” asked the driver. Taj turned to me, brows raised.

“Hotel Beatrici,” I said, and the driver nodded and took off.

I wondered briefly who those friends were that Taj mentioned—the ones he was staying with. Did they have a villa, or were they traveling together and staying at one of the many luxurious hotels in the city? Should I ask? Would it be too aggressive? Or suggestive?

When we pulled up to the colonnaded porch of the hotel, Taj pushed my hair away from my face and leaned his lithe body across mine.

“Tomorrow, Bec.” His lips moved against my cheek, then trailed to my lips and lingered in a last kiss.

I pretty much floated up the steps of the hotel, waving to Nelson on duty at the front door and happily opening up my bag for Case to search at the elevator. I was about to swipe my key card to let myself into the suite when the door was swung wide open by Varon. His smile was smug.

“Good evening, Miss Jackson.”

 

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20

“Juliet's back at last!” Varon called over his shoulder.

Was that my code name?

Candace was waiting for me, her perfectly manicured feet propped up on a footstool, her poppy red–suited arms resting in her lap. It was after midnight, and even barefoot she looked as poised and polished as ever.

“Juliet only had one Romeo,” quipped Ortiz, leaning over a chair. She was here too. Fabulous. “Our girl has two guys falling in love with her.”

I felt my face flame.

“Interesting. So where did you go?” Candace asked.

“I thought you'd already know, since I'm being tracked.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and waved it at her. “But I have nothing to hide. I went out with Kevin and Sophie—”

“And Taj,” said Ortiz before I could.

“And Taj,” I said, shooting her a cold stare. “To the Forte Prenestino.”

Candace fixed me with a hard stare. “I should have told you to come back to the hotel when Kevin was finished with you.”

“But you didn't.”

“A mistake I won't make again. No partying, Bec. Leave that to the models.”

I wasn't about to argue that I'd come home when things were just getting started. I slid my backpack off my shoulder, then slipped off my shoes, wanting nothing more than to take a hot shower and slip between my soft linen sheets.

“Have you said anything to Taj?”

I looked at her, confused. “About what?”

“About the First Lady.”

“He asked about her outfits—for his blog.” I didn't add anything else because he hadn't asked any invasive questions, and he deduced where the interview would be. But I had to be at least mostly truthful to Candace. She ranked higher than Taj on the scale of people able to ruin my life forever. “But I told him that no one tells me anything. Which they don't.”

“And that was it? You were quiet for the rest of the time?” Her eyes narrowed. “What were you doing?”

“Chatting. Dancing.” I left out the kissing. National security wouldn't be compromised if I didn't spill on that.

“Did he ask you about her schedule?”

“No.”

“Did he ask you what room she was in?”

“No.”

“Did he ask you to give her a note or a present?”

I exhaled dramatically. “No and no.” My legs were ready to give out from standing. “Can I go now? I'm tired.”

She tapped a fingernail against her lips as if she was contemplating my answers.

I shook my head and shrugged. “We talked about the places he visited, his blog. That's it. Really, Candace, I know how important it is for me not to say anything about Mrs. Jennings. You can trust me.” I had tons of secrets in my brain more important that what the First Lady was wearing and I kept them quiet.

Candace finally smiled. “Good. And Mrs. Jennings wanted me to tell you not to worry about almost knocking chunks of cement on her head. She understands it was an accident.”

“It really was!” I stuttered. “I would never do anything to hurt her!”

She held up that imperious hand. “Relax. You might have to convince Lidia, but the agents and I believe you too.” Ortiz nodded, and Candace continued, “But we will be keeping a closer eye on Dante.”

I could feel the heat of anger rising in my face.

Candace looked from Varon to Ortiz.

“Good night, Candace,” said Varon. Then he and Ortiz left.

“You need to be careful, Bec,” said Candace after the door clicked shut.

“I was,” I said, and I thought I really had been. I'd been aware of my surroundings. Nothing and no one raised my suspicions. Parker and Mrs. Jennings and who was trying to hurt them were on my mind. Constantly. The why seemed obvious: whoever it was wanted Theresa Jennings but jumped the gun and got Parker instead. For anyone not looped in to the First Lady's coming and goings, it looked like she'd arrived earlier than expected, and that was understandable since the Secret Service was being as vague about her schedule as possible. As a famous and important person, Mrs. Jennings had to have her share of threats from the nut jobs out there. But I felt like I was missing something. There were still questions about Serena and her cables, why my things were touched, and by whom.

“The Forte is on an international watch list—”

“So is half of Rome,” I argued. “So is San Francisco—only ten miles from where I grew up. Any big city where important people go—”

“I know you're smart,” said Candace in her version of my mom's scary Quiet Voice. She leaned back again, but I didn't think she was in the least bit relaxed; it was more like a pose a viper makes before it strikes. “Terrorists, drug and arms dealers, and others just as unsavory go to places on watch lists. They go there to do business because they think they're safe, that they blend into the crowd—and they will exploit anything and anyone to get an advantage. These people go for the weakest link.” Her smile was grim, her pointed finger, accusing. “That would be you.” Before I could object, she held up her hand. “I'm not saying you'd purposefully betray the First Lady, Bec.” Her eyes held mine. “These people are smooth and know how to manipulate anyone, even agents and police. That's why I activated the GPS in your phone. It's a precautionary measure not just for your safety, but for Mrs. Jennings's too.” Like my mother's could, Candace's eyes were soft and asking for my cooperation. “Now, did anyone ask you for a favor or suggest anything to you?”

I looked at her earnestly. “No.”

She examined me long and hard before nodding. “Okay, we're done here. Good night, Bec.”

I grabbed my backpack and went to my room. I appreciated Candace's honesty, but I was still aggravated. I had absolutely no privacy here. This was worse than that cloistered mountaintop convent school where Mom and Dad sent me before St. Xavier's.

After a shower, I felt calmer.
Candace and Ortiz are only doing their jobs
, I told myself, but I still didn't feel comfortable living like a bug under glass. A girl couldn't get a kiss without someone interrupting!

Too wired to sleep after the interrogation, I booted up my laptop. Finding an innocent and secure wi-fi, I clicked myself in and entered a private chat room.

Cap'nCrunch:
Any news on T-bone?

haxorgrrrl:
Still in the package.

In other words, nothing.

Cap'nCrunch:
Anything on his fam? Mom? Dad? Bro?

R2Deterent:
Thought he was an only child.

That wasn't true, he said he had a brother. I started typing a new message:
Keep digging
—but then deleted it.

Taj was practically a celebrity—and even the biggest couldn't keep everything a secret. He was trying to stay off the grid as much as he could.
Why?
He couldn't go anywhere without being recognized. People threw themselves at him, like Francesca and that girl at the Forte. Some of his admirers had to be head cases. I'd read too many stories of celebrity stalkers and the things they did; they didn't just go after the person but also went after people related or close to them. He mentioned his brother to me; was he worried about his brother's safety? Was he trying to protect his family? It wasn't unlike the Secret Service's protection of Parker by keeping her hidden.

He'd told me about himself.

Because he must trust me.

Taj was starting to open up to me—not a wise move on his part. I didn't expect the guilt to weigh as heavily on me as it did. He didn't know about my life as an almost-secret-agent—and he never could.

 

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21

The next morning, Ortiz escorted me, like a prisoner, straight to the office—no stop at the bakery. Mrs. Jennings, with Lidia and the agents in tow, was off to visit some soup kitchens and then have lunch with the prime minister. Lucky Serena finally got some alone time with Candace to review the plans for the upcoming shoots and interview, which left me under Kevin's thumb—and I was feeling the pressure.

He snapped at everyone. It seemed like Taj's little prank was taking more of a toll on Kevin's sanity than I thought—not that I could blame him. Stuck in Rome with no funds? It really sucked to be him—and anyone within a ten-mile radius. The prediction I'd made about him taking his wrath out on me was coming true, but no way could I say anything to him. That would break every hacker code of honor in existence, and I didn't want to be connected to this anyway. I'd tried myself to reverse what Taj had done, but I was locked out each time. Because of the shooting schedule, Kevin hadn't had time to go to the bank and the consulate to straighten this out in person. Taj had to fix this. Today.

I was looking forward to a long
pranzo
. At last, I'd managed to get Ortiz's prints from a discarded espresso cup. I planned on waiting until I was utterly alone to check for a match, but right before lunch, a delivery came and everyone in the office went crazy. Not delivered by Dante—this was too big and too important to be carted through the city on the back of a Vespa. The contents: Theresa Jennings's couture wardrobe for her shoot at St. Peter's Square and her interview with
Edge
. It was a gift from the prime minister and a group of debut Italian designers. Gianni and Serena coordinated the effort. Theresa Jennings was, in addition to being the First Lady, an international style icon. The feature in
Edge
would bring attention to the new Italian faces on the fashion front.

Kevin signed for the delivery. “Hang all the clothes and catalog them,” he ordered.

I didn't need the extra work—I was hoping to do a bit of surveillance around the office, particularly Kevin and Serena's shared space. I had yet to check out why Serena needed those cables. She knew when the First Lady was arriving, so she didn't quite fit the profile that was forming in my head of the person who almost took out Parker—but I still wanted to know why she was buying electronic equipment that was more advanced than she'd need.

“Then everything gets locked up!” Kevin shouted after me as he ran upstairs at Serena's call. “Even the accessories!”

“Yes, Kevin.” It was best just to nod and smile at this point.

“And wash your hands before you touch anything!”

Grrr!
I sort of felt bad about Kevin's situation, but I'd had enough. I wanted to text Taj about fixing his credit problem now, but it was better to tell him in person so our talk didn't leave a trail.

I took the box upstairs to the studio, where the empty racks were, and unpacked the clothing piece by piece.

Taliah came rushing in. “Let me see!”

“Don't touch!” I warned, spreading my arms to keep her back.

She was followed by the photo editor, a couple of copywriters, and of course, Francesca.

Everyone loved the mod-looking, Jackie-O-type dress suit in blue with a little cape and matching hat. That was for the shoot on the Square. When I pulled out the acid green sheath they would put her in for the
Edge
interview, it got some gasps. The color and cut would look fantastic on her.

“Can I take a few pictures?”