License to Thrill (5 page)

She changed into her boxers and her old Luis Miguel T-shirt—a souvenir from the first concert her father had ever taken her to—and sat down on her bed. I'm not doing this to forget my father, she reminded herself. I'm doing this to keep his memory alive. There. With a smile on her face and an image of Victor Carreras in her mind, Jo knew she was ready.

“It's a jolly good morning, I say,” Caylin remarked on the three-block walk to the embassy on a bright and sunny Wednesday morning.

“With an accent like that, even I'm starting to buy that you're a Brit,” Jo remarked as they walked past row house upon row house—council flats, as they were known in Brit parlance—along the narrow, winding road. Even though she spoke four languages fluently, Jo had experienced a few difficulties trying to perfect the accent herself; hence her
Americanista
status on the mission. Obviously Caylin didn't have the same problem.

“Before you know it, Cay, you'll be drinking tea with clotted cream and eating scones at every meal,” Theresa joked. “And then all the color will magically drain out of your skin.”

“Yeah, that sun-kissed look doesn't quite match your accent,” Jo said, catching their reflection in a store window. What she saw staring back at her in the streaked glass was Caylin, a striking blond in an
un
striking gray housecoat; Theresa, a brunette beauty in a simple cotton sundress; and herself, an exotic, out-of-place-looking chick dressed to the nines in a black business suit. They all looked pretty darn good in Jo's eyes.

“Hey, we'd better split up,” Theresa suggested. “The embassy's only a block away.”

“Consider it done,” Caylin said, initiating a good-luck high five. As their hands slapped together Jo, Caylin, and Theresa disappeared, leaving Natascia, Louise, and Emma to take their places.

•  •  •

“Emma Webster to see Ms. Dalton, the voice mail manager,” Theresa told the receptionist nervously. She repeated her pseudonym over and over in her mind like a mantra—Emma Webster, Emma Webster, Emma Webster—and prayed she wouldn't blow her cover in front of her new boss.

“Let me check,” said the polished redhead, motioning for Theresa to have a seat on the nearest couch. As Theresa parked it she studied her new surroundings. The large, airy lobby had the feel of a government agency but with more class and cash than those she'd had to deal with back home as a Tower trainee. The couches were leather rather than vinyl, and the art on the walls was actually quite attractive. She was so absorbed, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the receptionist called her new name loudly.

“Yes?” Theresa asked, startled.

“Ms. Dalton can see you now, Ms. Webster,” the receptionist announced. “Down that hall, third door on the left.”

“Thank you.” Theresa stood up and smoothed her sundress. Walking down the narrow hall, she held on to her composure. She had trained four long months for this moment. She was ready. Or better yet, Emma Webster was ready.

As she walked in the office marked Nora Dalton, Theresa's heart sank. Behind the immaculate desk sat a woman with a severe silver bun and a gray suit to match. Not exactly the kind of boss who'd let the good times roll,
she thought, plastering a smile on her face to mask her disappointment.

“Hello, Ms. Dalton? I'm Emma. Emma Webster,” she said in a rock solid voice, sticking her hand out for the obligatory nice-to-meet-you handshake.

“Hello, Ms. Webster,” Ms. Dalton said, looking her up and down with seeming disdain. “Have a seat.”

As Theresa sank into the brown leather chair her spirits sank with her. By the sour expression on Ms. Dalton's face, it didn't look as if she was too keen on her
or
her casual attire.

“You've come highly recommended for the job of voice mail technician,” Ms. Dalton began, “but I'd like to discuss your credentials. Could you explain to me why you feel you're qualified for the position?”

Theresa was totally confused. Didn't she already
have
the position? “Um, well . . . I just
love
telephones, and my grandmother was a switchboard operator way back when, so I guess the passion runs in the family.”

Ms. Dalton looked at her suspiciously. Was the grandmother bit too much? Theresa wondered. “And, uh,” she
continued nervously, “at my last job there were fifty lines that were lit up all the time.”

“Your last job?” Ms. Dalton asked, looking down at a piece of paper in front of her. “Which job was that?”

Theresa took a deep breath. “Well, I was the voice mail technician for Bill Gates—you know, the chairman of Microsoft? And since he's one of the richest men in America, the phone was always ringing off the hook. I was forwarding calls, screening calls, placing calls, patching people through to his cell . . . the whole nine yards.”

Ms. Dalton's eyes lit up. “Well, that's most impressive. To have gone from working for Sam Walton to Bill Gates!”

“Um, Sam Walton?” Theresa asked, trying to disguise her confusion.

“Yes, how delightful to have had the founder of Wal-Mart as an uncle,” she said, clasping her hands. “Your reference mentions you and your uncle Sam were quite close.”

A lightbulb clicked on inside Theresa's head. Uncle Sam! It would have been nice of him to let her know the details of her resume. “Well, yes, we were,” Theresa said solemnly. “May he rest in peace.”

Ms. Dalton's features softened. “His memory will live on with every call you answer here at the embassy, I assure you.” She rose from her chair. “Follow me, Ms. Webster. I'll teach you all you need to know.”

As she trailed Ms. Dalton out the door Theresa breathed a deep sigh of relief and gave herself a mental pat on the back. Snow job one—successful!

•  •  •

“Mr. Nicholson, I'd like to introduce you to our newest translator,” Sandra Frankel, Jo's
very
blond and British boss, announced as she led Jo into a posh office where none other than William Nicholson stood up from behind his desk and smiled welcomingly.

Jo gave Mr. Nicholson her best I-know-you-but-I-
don't
-know-you look, certain that her face showed no signs of recognition. “Nice to meet you,” she said confidently, extending her arm to offer a handshake. “I'm Jo—uh,
jovial
to be here. Natascia. Natascia Sanchez.”

Jo panicked momentarily, hoping Mr. Nicholson didn't notice her slipup. But to her relief, he shook her hand without missing a beat. “Nice to meet you, Natascia,” he said,
flashing a pearly white grin. “William Nicholson.”

Sandra, also seemingly oblivious to Jo's flub, quickly reeled off Jo's extensive credentials: fluent in Spanish, French, and Portuguese; lived in Cuba, Mexico, and Brazil; degree in international relations. Everything but the language and Brazil parts were fabricated, but Jo smiled proudly as if every word were the honest truth.

“Well, I'm impressed,” Mr. Nicholson said, nodding enthusiastically. “So accomplished for such a young girl. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” Jo lied.

“I have a son about your age,” Mr. Nicholson said. “He's interning here for the summer, so I'm sure you'll meet him one of these days. At any rate, Ms. Sanchez, we're pleased to have you on board.”

“She'll be on call for you whenever you need her, sir,” Sandra said. “When she's not working for you, she'll be translating the documents for the conference.”

Mr. Nicholson nodded thoughtfully. “Good, good. That conference is creeping up on us, isn't it? Just a few weeks away.”

“Yes, sir,” Sandra chirped.

What conference? Jo wondered. She vowed to get the dirt as soon as possible.

“Well, I'm sure I'll see you soon, Ms. Sanchez,” Mr. Nicholson said hastily. “Thanks for bringing her by, Ms. Frankel.”

Sandra shook his hand forcefully. “Very good, sir.”

“See you soon,” Jo called, wiggling her fingers good-bye.

As she followed Sandra out Jo breathed a sigh of relief. Other than almost completely blowing her cover, things didn't go too badly at all.

“That went well,” Sandra whispered, leading Jo down the fluorescent-lit hall. “Mr. Nicholson is really nice to work with. Very polite.”

Jo nodded. “He seemed really sweet. What's the conference you two were talking about?”

“Oh, the World Peace Conference,” Sandra said. “It's this really grand affair we're hosting two weeks from next Monday, and anyone who's anyone in politics will be there. Following the conference will be a formal ball. As a translator, you'll be invited.”

“Great!” Jo exclaimed. “It sounds totally glamorous. But I'm sure there's a lot to be done before then.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Sandra said. “I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to get all the documents translated. But I'm sure it will all work out.”

“Absolutely,” Jo assured her. “I'll do everything I can to help.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” Sandra replied. “Actually, it'd be brilliant if you could help pick out some of the music to be played at the ball after the conference. We need some . . . you know . . .
up-tempo
numbers, and I'm hardly one to judge.”

“I'd love to! Just say the word.”

“Well, we've got a while to go yet, but I'll let you know.” Sandra cleared her throat. “And now it's time to meet the rest of the translators.” She led Jo into the large translation department. It consisted of several cubicles—one for each of the translators—and private offices for Sandra and her second in command. Enormous file cabinets lined the walls.

“This is Natascia Sanchez, our newest translator,” Sandra announced. “Natascia, meet Flora, Nakita, Franz, Julius, Nana, and Antonio.”

While Sandra rattled on about her “credentials,” Jo made an effort to remember her new coworkers: Flora, a serious-looking woman with dark hair and glasses; Nakita, a Nordic blond girl around Jo's age; Franz, a pale brunette hipster boy; Julius, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard; Nana, an older woman with short red hair tucked under a black beret; Antonio—
whoa!
Jo almost seriously lost it when she laid eyes on him. Early twenties, dark hair, olive skin . . .
ouch!

“It's great to meet you all,” Jo said, directing this comment to Antonio in particular. You are utterly amazing, she told him silently, hoping her open admiration was beaming out through her ebony eyes. When Antonio held her gaze a beat too long, her heart sped up to about a million miles an hour. Was she having the same effect on him?

After everyone waved and welcomed her to the group, Sandra whisked her away for a tour of the embassy. First
stop: the ballroom where the World Peace Conference was to be held. It was a massive, opulent room, with shining wood floors and luxurious patterned carpets. A huge chandelier dominated the space, creating an atmosphere of Old World elegance.

“This is incredible,” Jo cooed.

“It
is
smashing,” Sandra agreed. “And will be even more so when it's filled with the most important people in the world. Let me show you back to the office, where some of the old files are archived.”

As Jo followed Sandra back to the far corner of the room she noticed a door marked Private next to the ladies' room.

“Uh, Sandra,” she asked, curiosity piqued, “would you excuse me while I go to the little girls' room?”

Sandra grinned. “Oh, sure, the loo's right there. I'll be in that office straight ahead.”

“Okay,” Jo said, ducking into the bathroom. After a few moments she poked her head out to make sure the coast was clear, then slid over to the mystery door. As Jo twisted the knob to the right her pulse raced. But her heart soon
sank like the
Titanic
as she realized the knob wasn't budging.
Locked!

“Not that door, Natascia.”

Jo jumped and whirled around to see Sandra peeking around the office door. She gulped, her heart pounding madly. Caught red-handed!

“Here.” Sandra met her out in the hall and directed Jo toward the ladies' room door. “This one.”

Jo hit her forehead with her hand, relieved that Sandra hadn't busted her. “Duh!” she exclaimed. “Sometimes I am
such
an airhead.”

She walked back into the bathroom to check her lipstick, but all the while her mind was spinning. Just what was behind that locked door that was so private? If Sandra's cool response is any indication, she decided, maybe it's nothing at all.

•  •  •

Caylin ran her feather duster along a smooth oak desk, her mind wandering in a thousand directions. Why did
she
have to be the one assigned to be the maid? The only perk of the job thus far was that she got to use an accent.
Too bad she didn't have anyone to use it on. Her boss had talked to her for thirty seconds, tops—long enough to hand her a bucket of cleaning supplies and a garbage can and to tell her which offices she was in charge of cleaning.

Twenty offices, six conference rooms, and two suites would be spic-and-span thanks to Caylin's services by day's end, according to Fiona, a frizzy-haired, twentysomething woman who also happened to be Caylin's boss. Fiona had quickly bailed, leaving Caylin alone with her thoughts. And those thoughts were none too sweet at the moment, considering most offices were empty—their inhabitants in meetings—and the few people she had encountered had avoided her gaze, not even saying so much as hello. Caylin was used to being a center-of-attention fly girl, not an ignored fly on the wall. And now, with each office she cleaned, her mood grew more and more sour.

“Cor blimey!” Caylin shrieked as something seeped down her dress during a routine garbage removal. After some close inspection she discovered that an open soda can at the top of the overflowing trash bag was obviously the culprit.