Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) (2 page)

He slid his palm down her wrist to her hand until their fingers laced together, as if they were lovers out for a stroll. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. He’d have paid money to know what was going through her head at that moment.

They got caught up in a swarm of German tourists who were loud, drunk, and enjoying themselves to the entertainment of everyone they met on the street. Garrett pulled the girl to his side, shielding her with his larger frame, but also to keep them from becoming separated. Bodies bumped against him. Someone mumbled sorry. And then they were free.

They walked to a small Thai café he knew on Phra Athit Road, where the street was less crowded so they could talk, and sat at a table outdoors. Garrett ordered pork soup and noodles for them both, as well as some stuffed flat breads and a couple of iced colas. His shirt stuck to his back. He loved the food in this city, but the humidity and heat had been the hardest things about Bangkok for him to adapt to. While Ottawa, Ontario sweltered in the summertime, it was nothing like this.

He scooped up a spoonful of soup. “I’m waiting for an explanation.”

She sat very straight, her spine not touching the back of her chair, looking more poised than tense. Despite the hunger he could read in her eyes, and the faint hollows in her cheeks, she picked at her bread, barely eating. “I came to Bangkok four months ago to work as a nanny for a British couple. Two weeks ago, the wife caught her husband trying to kiss me in a corner of the garden. I was dismissed on the spot without final wages.”

The lack of embellishment, and the faint bitterness beneath her words, told him everything. The story wasn’t uncommon. The only thing he questioned was how willing a participant she’d been in the garden fiasco, and that was none of his business. “Why not go to the Embassy for help?”

She sipped a little soup from her spoon before answering. “I planned to, but I needed to have money to get back to Canada. I was going to sell the passport, then go to them and report it stolen. They’d have issued me a temporary one.”

Her plan was bad on so many levels. Not to mention, a federal offense that could well lead to jail time. He had to ask himself what sort of person thought to sell a passport. She’d almost pulled it off, too.

There was also that two-week period of time since her dismissal. It made no sense.

“You have no family to call? Friends?” he persisted.

Again, she hesitated. “There’s just my father, and he travels a lot. I’m not sure how to reach him.”

Beausejour…

Garrett had a good memory and there was something about the name that rang a bell. He’d seen it somewhere else recently. A CSIS case file, perhaps.

Then he had it. Marc Beausejour was a suspected middleman in the theft of Canadian government property. There had been little information on him in the file, if he recalled correctly, mostly because Beausejour was a simple link in a very long, complex chain.

Garrett tapped the table with an index finger, his thoughts racing. Perhaps not so simple as was first believed. What a coincidence that a girl bearing his name, with the same transient lifestyle, happened to be in Bangkok at a time coinciding with a CSIS investigation of the smuggling of Canadian military goods across international borders.

“What’s your father’s name?” he asked.

“Leon.” She gave it a French pronunciation,
Lee-onh
, with the accent on the heavily nasal second syllable.

The name was wrong, but that didn’t mean a whole lot. He wished he could remember if Marc Beausejour had a middle name, or another he went by. “What does he do?”

She shrugged slender shoulders beneath the shapeless, oversize T-shirt she wore. “Something in international business. For a security management company, I believe.”

“What’s the name of the company?”

“I have no idea.”

He set down his spoon, finally giving in to impatience. “Look, Isabelle. I could have turned you over to the authorities. Instead, I’m trying to help you. A little cooperation on your part would be nice.”

She raised dark, unreadable eyes from the contents of her bowl, which she’d been examining with an intense and frowning concentration. “I’m an adult. My father and I are no longer as close as we once were. When he wants to see me, he finds me. I’m sorry if my lack of reliable friends is an inconvenience for you. I have plenty, I assure you, but none I feel comfortable enough with to call and ask for several thousand dollars that I probably won’t be able to pay back.”

His impatience dissolved. She was scared. More than that, she was defensive, and trying to deflect his attention away from her father. She was protecting him.

Too many coincidences.

He had her passport, which should have emergency contact information, but he didn’t want to spook her any more than she already was by checking it in front of her. Besides, it was undoubtedly false. If her father was connected to his investigation, and his instincts said he was, then keeping track of her might be the best way to find him.

And it would be easiest to do that if she were in Canada.

* * *

He still had her passport. She had to get it back.

Her fingers burned from where he’d been holding her hand. The name on the ID he’d shown her read Garrett Downing. Despite the ugly and tasteless shirt, he was a nice-looking man. Broad-shouldered, not quite six feet tall, and physically fit, he was built more like a wrestler than a runner. He had short brown hair, bleached at the tips by the sun. A bump and slight bend to an otherwise straight nose indicated it must have been broken at least once, giving him a “Don’t mess with me,” air. He probably wasn’t as old as he’d have people believe. Isabelle was good at guessing ages and she placed his at around thirty.

And he was smart.

She had lived abroad for years. Ex-pats heard things. Mr. Downing, she suspected, was with CSIS, which meant he was a spy. That was the only reason she could think of for why he’d be working at the Canadian Embassy, yet hanging out in Khao San at this time of night wearing those ridiculous clothes. Plus, Khao San wasn’t a place where foreigners spent more than a day or so, really, and he obviously knew the area reasonably well. She didn’t get the vibe of a man interested in late night sex shows, or child prostitutes, either. He paid close attention to his surroundings, radiating an intensity that kept her on edge, as if she were waiting for a bomb to go off or some other tragedy to strike. His eyes, a clear, hazel color in the artificial lighting, never stopped moving. She’d bet he could tell her the exact number of tuk-tuks—unauthorized taxis that looked like three-wheeled golf carts—that had gone past since they sat down. That was how he’d noticed what she’d been doing.

CSIS. Without a doubt.

He was asking too many questions. Those hazel eyes had fixed on her face in a way she didn’t like when they spoke of her father. She searched through everything she’d said and could find nothing that would warrant such a reaction. She loved her father deeply. It had been just the two of them for as long as she could remember. But from the age of fourteen, she’d known his work for an international security management company occasionally skated on the fringes of the law, offering protection to people who might not deserve it. Thank God she knew nothing about his recent activities—or current whereabouts.

She forced herself to eat even though her appetite was long gone. She had no idea when she might get another meal, and it gave her time to think. Even if Mr. Righteous saw her deported back to Canada, she’d have nothing when she got there. No money. No home. No family except for grandparents she hadn’t seen since she was a very small child, and who’d expressed no interest in her. Educated in a number of boarding schools, and sometimes by satellite from remote locations, her friendships, casual at best, spanned three continents. But Canada was where her father wanted her to go if they were ever separated, so that’s what she intended to do. Besides, it was far better to be destitute in Canada than penniless on the streets of Bangkok. The thought of ending up in one of the local strip shows in order to feed herself didn’t appeal in the least.

“Where do you think your father is now?”

Isabelle lifted a napkin to her lips, then crumpled it in her hand. “I don’t see what relevance this has, Mr. Downing. I’m an adult,” she repeated. “He’s not my keeper.”

“Garrett.”

That threw her off, and she slipped into her native French without thinking. “
Pardon
?”

“Call me Garrett. And it is relevant. How old are you, Isabelle?” He cast a disarming, crooked grin her way that unsettled her further. “Don’t make me check your passport.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

She could tell that surprised him, which came as no shock. She knew very well how young she looked. How plain. Women who traveled alone as much as she did went out of their way not to draw too much attention to themselves. She’d broken that rule today.

She ran through what she knew—or at least suspected—in her head. He was no doubt CSIS. He was curious about her father, who’d planned to meet her in Bangkok. And her father was missing.

But what if she was wrong and Garrett Downing wasn’t CSIS, or even with the Embassy at all? What if he was something else entirely? And what if he hadn’t stumbled on her by accident, but because he’d been looking for her?

How much trouble was her father in?

She itched to examine his ID more closely.

“I’d like my passport back,” she said.

“I can sympathize with your situation. I really can. Well,” he amended. “Trying to sell your passport, not so much.” His eyes glittered with humor, making him seem more human and less like a spy. Or killer. Worse, a white slaver. “But unfortunately, the best I can do for you is to help collect your belongings and escort you to the airport. You can have it back once we get there.”

“I have no money,” Isabelle reminded him.

“I’m going to buy your ticket for you.” He held up a hand before she could interrupt. “I’m also going to go to the gate with you, make sure you get on the plane, and have someone waiting for you when you arrive in Canada. I can at least help get you back on your feet.”

Tears of relief, hot and unexpected, welled in her eyes. Then a lifetime of caution reasserted itself. The possibility of white slavery wasn’t a joke. She blinked the tears away. “Why would you want to help me?”

This time, he was the one to hesitate. “I have two sisters. I’d hate to see one of them in your situation.”

She wasn’t a lost twelve-year-old. He had another motive, one he didn’t plan to share with her. She could hardly question him about it.

Or turn down his offer, either.

The sweating glasses of cola had left large rings of water on the table. Isabelle dabbed at them with the crumpled napkin still clutched in her fingers. “I can’t pay you back.”

“I don’t expect you to.” He finished the last piece of flatbread and washed it down with his drink. He flashed that grin at her again. “Besides, there’s a good chance that whoever meets you at the airport will confiscate your passport again.”

Chapter Two

Nova Scotia, Canada, one month later

Kiefer Mansford, three years old and squealing with glee, did a running cannonball off the diving board that never failed to make Isabelle’s heart stutter no matter how many times his mother assured her he could swim like a fish. He landed with a splash, washing a tidal wave of water onto his shrieking older sisters, Beth and Chelsea, who were dipping their toes at the side of the pool.

The toddler popped to the surface, a huge grin on his face.

Beth, seven, plopped her hands on her hips and did an excellent impression of her mother. “If you do that again, you’ll be sorry.” Kiefer stuck out his tongue. “Izzy, make him stop!” she demanded.

“The best way to make him stop,” Isabelle said, “is to get in the pool.”

Five-year-old Chelsea, her saucy red curls already spilling out of the ponytail Isabelle had fashioned only moments before, folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her lip. “The water’s too cold.”

“The pool is heated.”

It was also early July in Nova Scotia. The afternoon temperature had already topped ninety degrees and was steadily climbing, and for her part, Isabelle was more than happy to get wet and cool off. The children’s mother wanted them tired out and ready for an early bedtime because they had a surprise guest arriving. If a swim didn’t wear them out, the gorgeous, family-friendly backyard provided plenty of other entertainment options for three active children.

She’d been with the Mansfords less than a month, but she’d already learned the best way to get the girls to cooperate was to start having fun.

“Kiefer’s got the right idea. I’m going in.” She headed for the diving board. She was adjusting her bikini top, making sure it was secure, when she heard male voices in the house, near the open patio doors off the deck.

“Daddy’s home!” blonde-headed Beth shrieked. She and Chelsea ran for the house, ponytails swinging and bobbing in tandem.

Isabelle stepped off the board and scooted around the side of the pool to help Kiefer out of the water, grabbing a towel off one of the lounge chairs as she passed, conscious she was wearing nothing but a few scraps of colorful fabric linked together by string. She hadn’t bothered bringing a wrap outdoors with her because the house was supposed to be empty all day. While far from conservative, when it came to her body she’d learned to be cautious around her employers.