Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) (22 page)

He shucked his coat and dropped it on a chair by the window, then settled his palms on her hips. The hot water radiator gurgled as the heat kicked in.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he said. A trace of humor slipped into his tone. “Now. Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”

She evaded his question. “Why are you here?” Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I have my ways. And I’ve come for you.”

“For me?”

The surprise and suspicion on her face hurt him. He should have told her how he felt about her long before this. But he remembered her words outside, on the street when she first saw him, and that was enough to warn him that now wasn’t the right moment to tell her he loved her.
Thank God you’re here
could mean a number of things, but it didn’t speak to him of a desire for intimacy.

“If you’re worried that I’m really here because of your father, the answer is, I’m not. My work’s taken me in a different direction these days.” He couldn’t tell her everything, but he refused to give her false hope. “That doesn’t mean he’s been forgotten.”

She unzipped her jacket and withdrew a packet of papers. She held it for a long moment, staring at it, then straightening her shoulders, she handed it to him. “Here. I was asked to deliver these for him. I’d planned to look at them first, but I’d rather you do it for me. I don’t want to know what they contain.”

Garrett took the packet. Inside, sandwiched between sheaves of paper, was a lump the size of a thumb drive. He hoped she understood what she was doing. “You realize,” he said slowly, “that if these contain anything of interest to Canada, or Interpol, or the Netherlands, I’ll have to report it?”

She nodded. “I’d planned to call you right after I’d looked at them. I didn’t know what else to do.” Her chin quivered. “He was so afraid when I saw him today, Garrett.”

He unwound the string holding the packet folded in half and slid his finger under the flap of the envelope. He scanned the contents with a sinking heart. These were rough designs from a Canadian defense contractor that specialized in state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, catering to law enforcement agencies all over the world. He guessed the thumb drive would contain the design specifics. His next step would be to call his agency in Ottawa, who’d contact Interpol, who in turn would alert the Dutch National Constabulary, since the exchange was taking place in their jurisdiction.

“Where were you supposed to deliver these?” he asked.

Isabelle gave him the address. “Is it bad?”

“Bad enough.” He rifled through the papers. These weren’t plans for weapons of mass destruction, or weapons systems either, which came as a relief, but he couldn’t say for certain what was on that thumb drive. And Isabelle said her father seemed afraid. That was bad, too. He tucked the papers back in the envelope and tied it shut. “At the very least, it’s going to mean jail time for him. Are you prepared for that?”

“Of course not.” She shivered, although she still wore her jacket and the room wasn’t cold. “But I’d rather he be in jail and alive.”

She said that now. She might feel differently in a few weeks or months. It was also very likely she might never be able to look at Garrett again without experiencing some level of remorse, remembering how he’d encouraged her to help put her father behind bars.

His hopes for a happy resolution to their relationship—or lack of one—evaporated.

“I have a few phone calls to make,” he said.

* * *

He said he’d come for her.

He hadn’t explained, or said anything more, and Isabelle hadn’t dared ask what he meant. If she’d somehow misunderstood, she couldn’t bear it. If she’d understood correctly, they were both destined for disappointment. Any connection to her would prove disastrous for his career. She’d never do that to him.

Right now, it was enough for her that he was here.

The restaurant where she was to meet her father had been converted from an old warehouse dating back to medieval times. The building was tall and narrow, deeper than it was wide. The topmost floor had once been living quarters. She believed the owner had turned it into a private penthouse. The three lower levels were dining rooms of varying degrees of exclusivity. She’d been here before, on numerous occasions. The chef was an acquaintance of her father’s, and kept a personal table reserved for friends. She paused at the door of the topmost restaurant, sick to her stomach and hating what she was about to do.

She caught sight of her reflection in a mirrored wall, startled by it. On the outside, she looked so calm. She’d fastened her hair in a careless knot on the top of her head. A few tendrils wisped around her ears and the nape of her neck. Pearl drop earrings that had once belonged to her mother were a gift from her grandmother. She’d chosen a simple, thigh-length dove-gray tunic over black leggings, paired with high-heeled, black leather, over-the-knee boots, because they were all items she could wear again. Everything else her father had bought for her would go back to the store. She’d donate the money. She couldn’t bear the thought of profiting from it.

Her unsettled stomach disagreed with the mirror’s assessment of serenity. Garrett’s presence outside on the street, and the two Dutch
politieagenten
she knew were somewhere inside, were all that kept her from bolting. She’d been given one opportunity to convince her father to turn himself in before the arrest. To keep this nightmare from happening. It was now or never.

The plan was simple. Partway through dinner, Garrett would enter so he could offer his support without interfering. She had no idea how he’d managed to arrange that. Tables were notoriously hard to reserve. She was to return the papers to her father and tell him she hadn’t been able to deliver them. The
politie
wanted them on him when he was arrested. While CSIS dealt in information, law enforcement agencies preferred to have hard evidence that would stand up in court. After dinner, she was to find an excuse to leave the restaurant without him. Hopefully, he’d never learn of her involvement. The
politieagenten
would then make the arrest outside, when he was alone, as quietly as possible. If her father’s life was truly in danger, they wanted no one to witness it, although Garrett had warned her it was unlikely to go without notice.

She walked through the open restaurant doors. This floor of the building had retained much of its original construction. Three walls were of brick, interlaid with tiles of
Delfts blauw
. Broad, roughhewn beams in the low ceiling had long ago grayed with age. Solid plank floors, worn in places, sagged in others.

The dining room had ten tables, elegantly dressed. Eight were occupied, most by couples. Two of the tables had four occupants, obvious business associates. Nowhere did she see two men alone. Perhaps the
politieagenten
hadn’t yet arrived. Or they hadn’t been able to secure a table.

Her father stood as she approached. The maître de held out her chair for her to be seated.

“You look beautiful,” her father said to her, taking his seat again.

Garrett had already told her the same thing, but with a far different inflection. The memory of the light in his eyes as he’d offered his approval still warmed her.

They talked of inconsequential things. Her impressions of Bangkok. Nova Scotia. How much running they’d done over the past year, and if their times had improved. It was as if their lives hadn’t changed at all. But they had. Their relationship wasn’t what it had once been. Isabelle knew that, after this evening, it never would be again.

The main course was delivered. They ate it in silence. If her father was worried, she could no longer tell. Preoccupied, yes. But then, so was she. Garrett had arrived partway through the meal. She’d seen him out of the corner of her eye, being seated at an empty table near the front window overlooking the street, and lost what little appetite she’d had to begin with.

She refused dessert. Her father ordered another drink.

“Did you deliver the package?” he asked once their plates had been cleared.

She removed the papers from the black-sequined clutch resting on her lap and laid the packet on the table between them. “No. I was hoping you’d reconsider.”

“Those papers aren’t mine.”

“They’re in your possession.”

Her father met her eyes. “They were in your purse. Anyone watching would have seen it.”

The room spun. She gripped the edge of the table until it righted itself. This man was the stranger she’d been warned of, but had never met.

“Really, Papa
?
” she asked softly. “This is how you choose to deal with this?”

His eyes shuttered. “I have no other choice. It seems I’ve been abandoned by yet another Anjelais.”

Inside, her heart was breaking. Garrett had tried his best to prepare her for this. He’d said she couldn’t allow her father to make her feel guilty. That this wasn’t a situation of her making. If she retreated now, and someday he ended up dead, then yes, she would be at fault.

“You have choices,” she said.

“So do you. If you walk out of here without those papers, I’ll know what yours is.”

And now she knew his. Unshed tears burned the backs of Isabelle’s eyes. She stood, fighting them off. “I love you, Papa.”

He remained seated, unmoved by her emotion. “The people who love me don’t leave me.”

This, from the man who’d abandoned her in Thailand without a penny to her name. She didn’t recognize him. Her heart cracked a little more.

She skirted the table, stooping, with a hand on his shoulder, to press a kiss to his cheek. “Good-bye.”

She saw nothing as she departed the dining room, the empty clutch in her hand. She had no idea if Garrett followed her, or if the elusive
politieagenten
watched her exit. She wanted to get back to her room, gather her things, and return to Nova Scotia on the next flight.

She was so lucky that Garrett had found her grandparents for her. That he was with her, right now. At least she wasn’t alone.

The same couldn’t be said for her father.

Chapter Fourteen

Isabelle was leaving the restaurant.

Every male eye in the room had turned to watch her, some discreetly, a few with open appreciation. The outfit she’d chosen, while simplistic, screamed an attitude of elegant indifference. The tall, high-heeled boots, paired with the soft, thigh-grazing tunic, underscored the length of her legs and the athletic slenderness of her body. Subtle makeup brought out the curve of her cheeks and the exotic dark beauty of her eyes. She really was an extraordinary chameleon. Garrett would never forget how badly he’d underestimated her in Thailand, all because she’d chosen to go unnoticed.

Right now, the expression on her face gave nothing away. Not to anyone who didn’t know her. Garrett, however, had learned that the less expressive she was, the more deeply she was troubled. He knew, without being told, that her father had hurt her.

He’d observed Beausejour throughout dinner. He was used to studying people, learning what motivated them. He’d seen no signs of the fear Isabelle had said her father had exhibited so plainly that morning. Instead, Garrett discovered where Isabelle got her talent for hiding her thoughts and emotions. Marc Leon Beausejour was an actor. A very good one, in fact. Garrett suspected Isabelle had been well played.

Beausejour was about to get what he so richly deserved. Isabelle, on the other hand, was not.

Garrett gave her a head start, then tossed some euros on the table and followed her. Once he was out of the dining area and out of sight, he collected his overcoat and ran down the steep flight of stairs, taking them two at a time, unmindful of the risk to his neck.

She was waiting for him on the street outside, staring at the brightly lit houseboats on the canal. Everywhere, the city sparkled with white, pinpoint lights that had been draped from trees, building canopies, and along the canals in preparation for the feast of
Sinterklaas
on December 6th.

He took Isabelle’s hand, weaving their fingers together.

“This is it?” she asked, lifting her gaze from the water. She searched his eyes. “I don’t have to do anything more?”

“Not a thing,” Garrett assured her. “The police will handle it from here.” He hated seeing the shell-shocked blankness on her face. It worried him. “Let’s get away from here. I know of a wine bar nearby. We could both use a drink.”

They walked in silence, one of many couples out for an evening stroll. The wine bar was full, but the seating arranged so as to be intimate and discreet. There were a few available stools at various bars scattered about, but Garrett slid the hostess twenty euros and asked for a place they could sit in private. They waited almost fifteen minutes, during which time Isabelle stared off into space and Garrett never let go of her hand.

They were eventually shown to two plush leather chairs drawn close together, the kind one could sink into, near a fireplace. A small round table nestled between them. Garrett ordered two
pinots noir
.

Isabelle took a sip of her wine. She was too calm. Too emotionless. His worry grew.

“I never saw the police,” she said, startling out of her trance. “Are you certain they were there?”

“They were seated at the table nearest the door. You had to walk right past them on your way out. They would have been on your right.”