License to Thrill (11 page)

“Pretty good,” he replied, taking a sip from his steaming cappuccino. “Work's been a killer, right?”

“That's for sure,” she agreed, though work was the least of her problems.

“I'd give anything to jump in my Porsche right now and take a few spins around a racetrack,” he said with a sigh.

“You race?” she asked in amazement.

“Oh yeah, I love it,” he said. “You too?”

“That's an understatement. I
live
for it!” She leaned back in her chair and twirled the straw in her drink. “But how did a working man like you score a Porsche? I'm
dying
to know.”

“My uncle left it to me in his will. He died last year.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Were you close?”

“Yes—he taught me everything I know about racing.” His face pinched up for a moment. “I could sell it—I sure need the money. But driving in it reminds me of him. I wouldn't sell that for the world.”

I know what you mean, Jo thought, her heart going out to him.

“Enough about me,” Antonio began, understandably anxious to change the subject. “I've been meaning to ask you—how'd you learn to speak Arabic?”

“Huh?” she asked, taken aback. “Wh-why do you want to know
that 
?”

“I overheard you telling Jonathon you spoke Arabic, and I don't remember Sandra saying you did. So I was just wondering how you picked it up.”

She crossed her fingers under the table and took a deep breath. “Well, um, my father had this oil baron friend from Saudi Arabia who stayed with us for a while when I was little,” she fibbed. “So I guess that's where it started. And I studied it a bit in college. I'm not exactly fluent, though.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Whoa, I'm impressed. Your dad must have friends in high places.”

“My dad is dead,” she said automatically, looking down. She hoped this true confession wouldn't blow her cover.

He touched her elbow. “I'm really sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“Well, I'm still sorry,” he said quietly. “Listen, could we meet for coffee some weekend?”

“What?” she asked, heart racing. “I mean, um, sure.”

“So how can I get in touch with you?” he asked.

“The Ritz,” she said. “Uh, with my aunt—Camilla Stevens.” Inside she kicked herself for giving up her home base so easily. But what could she do? Antonio had a way of getting her guard down. Besides, one coffee date wasn't going to hurt anything.

“Stevens?” he asked. “I thought your last name was Sanchez.”

“It is,” she stammered, “but it's my aunt from my mom's side.”

He nodded and looked at his watch. “Oh no—I was supposed to meet my friend Graham at the gym ten minutes ago. I totally forgot today's our gym day.”

She smiled. “That's okay—go.”

“I hate to, believe me, but he'll kill me if I bail on him,” he said apologetically. “I'll give you a call, okay?”

As he looked into her eyes she wondered if the strange feeling in her stomach was a product of excitement over this encounter or fear she was getting in too deep. Suddenly she couldn't tell the difference anymore.

•  •  •

That night at the suite Theresa paused for a moment over her French onion soup. “Was that a knock?” she asked.

Antonio! Jo thought, jumping to her feet and almost upending her salad. She floated to the door, her heart sinking a bit when she found only a bellman behind it. But
her spirits lifted instantly when she saw he was holding a gigantic gold Godiva box.

“Package for a Ms. Natascia Sanchez,” the man said.

“For me?” Jo cheered, grabbing the megabox out of his hands. She fished a few pound notes out of her pocket and blindly tossed them to the bellman.

“Very good, m'lady,” he said, tipping his hat. “Have a pleasant evening.”

Jo ripped open the card with glee. “Oh, my gosh, check this out,” she demanded, heart rate accelerating faster than a zillion-horsepower engine. “ ‘Natascia, here's to fast cars and faster friendships. Antonio.' Ohhh, couldn't you just
die
?”

“Pretty profound,” Theresa said, focusing her gaze on the Godiva chocolates. “Pass 'em over.”

“So how well do you know this guy?” Caylin asked. “Don't forget, Jonathon thinks a
translator
planted the bugs. And that more than likely means you, Jo. Maybe Antonio is one of Jonathon's cronies.”

“Antonio has nothing to do with Jonathon,” Jo said, rolling her eyes. Honestly, her roomie could be such a
stick-in-the-mud. “I know him well enough, I assure you. Now which one should I have first? The pink one or the heart-shaped chocolate one?”

“Come on, you guys!” Caylin cried. “Jo's life could be in danger here.
All
our lives could be in danger now that this Antonio guy knows where we
are 
! Doesn't that matter to you?”

“Not where chocolate's concerned,” Theresa said as she studied the chocolate map. “Okay, Jo, you've got strawberry creme and macadamia nut. But—wait a second—the strawberry creme is supposed to be in the corner, not the middle.”

“Same difference,” Jo said, the pink confection just millimeters away from her mouth.

“Don't bite into it!” Theresa cried, batting the strawberry creme out of her hand.

“What are you doing?” Jo demanded. “Have you gone psycho or something?”

“No,” Theresa said, pointing down to the map urgently. “See, these are all out of order. Which means they might have been
tampered
with.”

“Hmmm. Can we say
par-a-noid
?” Jo quipped.

“You see? You see?” Caylin said, moving in for a closer look. “I bet Antonio
is
working with Jonathon. How can we be so sure he's not a bad guy?”

“Caylin's right. Look.” Theresa held a piece of candy before Jo's eyes. “There's a little pinprick in the side here. And it looks like that's not the only one.”

Jo inspected the candy herself, feeling a bit skeptical. But the more pinpricks she saw, the more convinced she became. “I guess we're better safe than sorry,” she admitted.

“You'd better believe it!” Caylin ran her hand through her hair anxiously. “We should send these out to the lab immediately. Find out just what kind of guy we're dealing with here.”

“I'll handle it,” Theresa offered.

“And if there's
any
way you can convince them to
not
breathe a word of this to Uncle Sam, please do it,” Caylin begged. “Because if he
ever
finds out that
someone
gave out our home base to a terrorist, that
someone's
going to get us all declassified!”

Jo shook her head in disbelief and flinched as Caylin's
tirade sank in. Jo had let her friends down—and she'd let
herself
down, too. Clearly Antonio was bad news from the beginning. Jo had known there was something different about him, something unnerving. Still, she couldn't believe that Antonio would actually want her dead. No way. Why would the guy who made her heart do back flips want to stop it from beating altogether?

“Hey, Antonio,” Jo called when she walked into the translation office on Thursday morning in her usual flirtatious fashion. “Thanks
so
much for the chocolates,” she cooed. “I was just
super
tired last night, and I couldn't take a bite. But it was so sweet of you.”

“Not at all,” he said with a wink. “The pleasure is all mine, Natascia.”

She shivered, wondering if she was only imagining the predatory flash in his eyes.

“Jo, William Nicholson needs your translating services ASAP,” Sandra announced from her office. “It's urgent. He has someone in his office right now.”

Oh no, she thought in a panic. Does he need my
Arabic
translating services?

The color drained from her face as she headed to his
office, feeling as if she was on her way to the electric chair.

When she entered the office, she found a well-dressed man sitting in front of Nicholson's desk. Please don't be Arabic, she chanted silently. Please don't be Arabic.

“Hello, Ms. Sanchez. This is Mr. Sandro from Portugal,” Mr. Nicholson said. “If you could kindly translate our conversation, it would be much appreciated.”

“Certainly, sir,” she said, breathing a big sigh of relief.

As the men began to talk she mindlessly translated the rather boring conversation between them. As far as she could tell, nothing of interest was being discussed—just a lot of political mumbo jumbo.

“Could we have a tour of the green room in the basement?” Mr. Sandro asked in Portuguese, putting Jo on red alert.

Green
room? she thought. Like, a perfect place for a
green
disc?

Nicholson cleared his throat after Jo translated the question. “Well, I can't discuss that with a translator present,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “It's highly sensitive information.”

The cat's got Nicholson's tongue, Jo realized, her heart soaring. This is the big break we've been waiting for!

•  •  •

“I have an amazing announcement,” Jo told Caylin and Theresa the second she came through the door that evening.

“You've got a date with Harry Styles?” Theresa joked.

“No—how about you've found a good-tasting fat-free potato chip?” Caylin said, making a face as she bit into one from the open bag on her lap.

“Wrong and very wrong,” Jo said, plopping down on the couch next to the girls. “I found out there's a green room in the embassy.”

“A
what 
?” Caylin and Theresa asked in stereo.

“A
green
room,” she repeated. “I was clued in today while translating for Nicholson. Anyone else thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Green room, green disc?” Theresa said, eyebrows raised.

“Right on,” Jo screeched, barely able to contain her excitement. “I mean, what are the odds? It's fate!”

•  •  •

“Hey, have you ever heard of the green room?” Caylin asked Fiona nonchalantly on Friday morning. Her pulse was racing in anticipation of getting the goods.

Fiona cocked her head thoughtfully. “I have heard of it but never actually seen it. And as far as I know, no one except for Mr. Nicholson himself is allowed down there.”

“But do you know what's in there?” Caylin asked.

“No clue,” Fiona said. “Confidential stuff—papers, documents, stuff like that. As far as I'm concerned, I'm glad it's off-limits. Just one more blasted room to clean.”

Later that morning Caylin went back to the same storage closet where she'd found the date book. Even though she'd already turned it upside down, she figured it was worth another shot, like maybe Devaroux wrote out its location on a bottle of oil soap or something. She took all the bottles down from the shelves and inspected their labels closely but found nothing. Disheartened, she checked out the linen closet next.

“Uh, can I help you?”

She jumped and smiled cluelessly at the janitor hovering in the doorway. “Just looking for some bleedin'
ammonia—you got any?” she asked, scratching her head.

“Try storage down the hall,” he said, looking at her as if she were two sandwiches short of a picnic. “This closet's just for linens, hence the name.”

“Sorry, fella,” she said apologetically. “I'm new and all.”

“Don't worry yourself, luv.”

“Say—you know where the green room is?” she asked, deciding to take a chance. “That's something else I'm having trouble finding.”

“Worked here three years, and I never heard of it,” he said. “The green room, is it?”

“Yeah . . . well, maybe I sussed it wrong,” she lied, her spirits plummeting. “Ta.”

•  •  •

“Dinner reservations, eight o'clock sharp,” Theresa announced the second she walked into suite 1423.

“Dinner reservations?” Jo asked. “Is that a good idea with this chocolate scare and all?”

“I took a call this afternoon confirming Jonathon Nicholson's reservation for two at eight o'clock at Simpsons-in-the-Strand restaurant,” Theresa said, chest swelling with
pride over her coup. “Which means we now have instant dinner plans.”

“Could be a good lead,” Caylin said optimistically. “But sadly, I have nothing to wear.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and swooned dramatically.

“Cay's right, you know,” Jo replied. “Jonathon knows what we look like. We have to go totally incognito. Does London have any after-hours wig shops?”

“Already taken care of,” Theresa said. “If you'll head into my room, ladies, I believe you'll find a shipment of goodies from a designer I just
happen
to know personally. To my room, pronto!”

Jo and Caylin ran into Theresa's room lickety-split. Theresa followed behind, chuckling.

“All right, Mom clothes!” Jo cheered as she ripped open the box. After the chocolate scare, Jacqueline Hearth's wacky fashions were just what the doctor ordered.

Caylin rubbed her hands together anxiously, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. “Bring 'em on!”

“This is too cool!” Jo cried, checking out the rainbow of vinyl clothes, fluorescent wigs, and feather boas.

“I can't believe your mom actually made these,” Caylin said in awe.

“I have to admit, she
is
a splendiferous designer, even if her funky clothes don't exactly float my boat,” Theresa admitted. “And Mom was hoping we'd road test these before she debuts them on the runway.”

“Wow—what an honor!” Jo said, pink wig covering her black locks. She felt curiously carefree as she admired the colors, textures, and fabrics. “How did you get 'em here so quickly?”