Spy Girl (7 page)

I go to my room, lie down on my bed, set my alarm, and drift off trying to come up with a plan.

X X
X

At dinner, Ari and I are seated next to four rowdy British lads in town for the race, the cars, and the women. It appears everyone parties all night, sleeps until early afternoon, then does it all over again.
 

We become fast friends during our meal, and by the end we’ve moved past small talk.

“It’s our fifth year here,” one of them tells us. “We started coming when we were still chums at Oxford.”

“It’s our first time,” I admit. “What do I need to know? Like where should we go tonight?”

One of the chums raises his hand. “We volunteer to show you the ropes.”

It doesn’t hurt that I’m in a killer dress. Well, pieces of a dress.

Ari rolls his eyes at me. “I thought you were going to the Prince’s party tonight.” He says to them, “She got tickets today.”

“Bollocks,” one says.

“Boring,” one adds.
 

Another makes a snoring sound.
 

I pretend to look perplexed. “I would think there would be a lot of attractive women there.”

“Yes, but who all want to be a princess. We prefer to slum in the casino.”

“I doubt anyone slums here,” Ari jokes.

“The Prince’s parties are small, elite, well-mannered affairs,” a tall red head who reminds me of a Weasley informs us.

“And you boys aren’t well-mannered?” I ask.

He grins. “We most definitely are not.”

The others protest, calling their friend a cad.
 

Ari continues, still questioning my judgment on this. “But I thought my sister
wanted
to meet the Prince?”
 

I shrug, like whatever.

“Do you gamble?” the redhead asks.

“I read up on how to play Roulette. I’d like to try that.”

“Which one? The English, American, or European French version?” the tall, good-looking guy named Wesley asks. He’s the cutest one of the bunch and my target for tonight.

“No offense to the British,” I say, holding up my hands, “but I’d like to play the European French version.”

The boys boo.
 

“Well, let’s finish our pints and go then, shall we?” the redhead asks.

“Sounds good to me,” Ari replies.

“Would you like a ride?” I ask the group as we depart the restaurant to find Ellis holding open the door to our limo.

“It’s just a short walk,” one of the guys argues.

“You wouldn’t say that if you were wearing these.” I pull the hem of my skirt up and show them my sky-high heels.
 

“Those look like they could kill a man,” Wesley teases.

You have no idea.
 

I grab Wesley’s hand and pull him into the limo with me. He’s loud, obnoxious, and a flirt, which fits right into my plan to get the Prince’s attention. Because I
won’t
be going to his party.
 

The casino is loaded with surveillance cameras, and although the casino is owned by a public company, the Montrovian government and the royal family hold the majority interest.
 

And, I’m hoping the dress I chose for tonight will attract attention—especially with the amount of money I’ll be gambling with.
 

MISSION:
DAY FOUR

The Prince wanders into the morning room, his usual full English breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs, broiled tomato, fried potatoes, toast, and strong coffee waiting for him.
 

“I don’t know how you eat all that in the morning,” Juan, his bodyguard and head of security detail says, handing him the local newspaper. “Is this her?”

The Prince studies the photo. Clearly it’s her, and clearly she is beautiful. And that dress. He reads the caption:
Huntley Von Allister dazzles in a pink gown with an open midriff from the Michael Kors Collection.
 

The gown, if you can technically call it that, features a long skirt slung low on her hips in a glittering pink fabric. A matching band of fabric covers her breasts and another circles her neck.
 

“So, she was at the casino but didn’t come to my party?” the Prince asks, looking bewildered.
 

“Apparently so, sir. If it’s any consolation, her brother showed up.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“I’m told it’s because she was winning an obscene amount at the roulette table.”
 

“Which kind?”

“French European. She garnered a fair amount of attention from Casino security.” He tosses a stack of photos at the Prince.

“I’ll bet she did.” He rifles through them. “She’s beaming, gorgeous, and looks fiercely competitive. You can see the seriousness in her eyes. The security camera was positioned as such to take beautiful photos of her.” Towards the end of the stack he notices a tall, good-looking man kissing her in celebration.
 

Then escorting her out of the casino, they leave together.

He lays the photos down with a bit of a huff. “Who is the guy?”

“Wesley Windsor, British playboy.”

“Royal?”

Juan looks at his notes. “Seventeenth in line for the throne. Grandson of the Queen’s daughter.”

He studies the photos some more. “It’s almost as if she knew where the cameras were and knew I would see these photographs.”

Juan chuckles. “Just for you, huh? The photos were made from the surveillance videos.”

“Can I please get a Bloody Mary?” the Prince says, causing a staff member to scurry away.

“Hangover, sir? You’d think by now you would have learned,” Juan teases.

“Mierda.”

“Now now, Lorenzo,” the Queen scolds, joining the pair at the table. She picks up a photo. “Very pretty. Is she a suspected terrorist or something?”

“Why would you think that?” Lorenzo asks.

“There are an
awful
lot of photos of one girl.” His mother laughs. “Although, she does look pretty spectacular in that dress.”

Juan replies with a grin. “Well, we can’t be too careful, Your Highness. You know the chatter our clandestine forces have been hearing.”

“You’d think they’d have better things to do than research a pretty girl who looks harmless.”

“If you were trying to kill your son, wouldn’t you hire someone who looks like she does to do it?”

The Queen shakes her head. “An assassin wouldn’t wear pink.” She looks closer and tilts her head. “I’ve seen this girl before. Just the other day. Where was it?” She taps her finger against her chin, thinking. “I know,” she says, grabbing her iPad and typing. “Here it is!” She turns the screen toward the Prince.

He sees another photo of Huntley Von Allister looking stunning, wearing a red gown and dancing at the Smithsonian Institution gala with someone he knows.

X X
X

I wake up to the sounds of the ocean only to have it be overrun with rap music—a loud, angry Detroit version—blaring from the courtyard.
 

I step out onto the Juliet balcony that overlooks the villa’s courtyard and see Ari shirtless by the pool, doing yoga. I study his form as he calmly holds a plank pose, his muscles tight for a long while before his arms finally start to shake. He holds the pose for a few more beats then pops up, sprints across the courtyard, and beats the crap out of a portable punching bag—his odd workout a combination of zen and badass.

I study my brother some more. I was right. He’s fully fit, toned, and perfectly muscled. He should be shirtless more often.
 

I close the door, shutting out the noise, and walk out into the living portion of my suite to find the file I asked for yesterday on my table along with a continental breakfast.
 

I pluck up the file, pour myself a glass of orange juice, wrap a napkin around a chocolate croissant, and make my way out to the veranda overlooking the Montrovian harbor.
 

I savor a bite of the croissant before opening the file. Inside is just a single sheet of paper.
 

Aristotle, or Ari, is apparently his real name. Real last name:
Bradford
.
 

Mother passed away from breast cancer when Ari was young. His father was a four-star general stationed at the Pentagon, who died in a traffic accident when Ari was eighteen. Ari followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the Army, where they discovered talents in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. He was quickly sent to train and then earned a spot as the youngest member of an elite unit. He holds the Army’s long-range sniper record and is their boxing champion. He’s earned numerous medals of honor, one specifically for saving his unit’s leader when bad intelligence caused a shit storm of a firefight.

I can see why they chose him for this mission. Not only is he qualified, but with his family all gone, it would be easy to change his birth records and create adoption papers. And wham, bam, Ari is the long lost son of a billionaire.

I turn the sheet of paper over, where Ellis has added a handwritten note.
 

Six months ago, Ari was pulled from his elite unit and trained as a covert agent.
 

Which I find interesting. CIA training is typically a year-long program and for those who are at least twenty-six years old. That’s what made Blackwood so different. They were training younger agents.

I’m distracted from the brief when a text pops up on my phone.
 

AirForceTwo:
 
You owe me a pizza . . . and a shirt.

I look down at my choice of pajamas and smile. But I don’t reply. If Daniel wants his shirt back, he’ll have to come to Montrovia and get it. I glance at the clock, knowing I need to work out and then get ready for the pool party Ari and I are having today.

Apparently, when you win big at the roulette table in a barely-there dress and have a smoking hot brother, everyone wants to be your friend.
 

X X
X

“Looks like you win,” Ari says, elbowing me and nodding toward the entrance to the courtyard.
 

“Well, isn’t this a precarious situation? My hot-as-hell hookup hands me the Prince on a silver platter. I couldn’t have planned it better if I had planned it.” I elbow Ari back. “Oh wait, I did.”

I watch as Daniel enters the courtyard with the Prince of Montrovia. Next to the Prince is a man with a discreet earbud and alert eyes. He’s the same guard who was with the Prince in the clothing store. I’m sure the outside of the villa is surrounded by agents, but the fact that there is only one in here is the first flaw I see in his security protocol.
 

The Prince doesn’t approach me right away. He’s too busy being swarmed by people who either know him or want to.

Daniel, on the other hand, walks straight over to me. I’m dressed in a bikini, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m standing here naked.
 

“You crashing my party?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest like I’m mad at him for being here.
 

“You wanted me to come,” he fires back, then kisses both my cheeks. “And, now, here I am. With the Prince, who if I recall, you didn’t think I really knew.”

“So you only showed up to prove a point?”

“Actually, it just so happens he called and asked about you.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, he invited you to his party last night, and you didn’t show. Not many women will turn down an invitation from the Prince. You’ve perplexed the poor guy.” Daniel laughs. I can tell he finds my not going to the party humorous.
 

“That wasn’t my intention. I just happened to be busy.”

“Doing what? Or should I say,
whom
?”

“What do you mean?”

He flashes a photo of Wesley and me leaving the casino last night.

“That’s none of your business,” I say.

“Did you sleep with him?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Dang. I was going to compare battle wounds with him.”

“What are you talking about?”

He points down to his calves, which are indeed boasting fresh red tracks down the outsides. “Your sexy heels almost ruined my photogenic-ness—my perfect specimen of a body. And the salt water in the pool stung the hell out them.” He smirks. “But at least the pain stopped the tears of being ditched in the morning.”

“I tried to wake you up.”

“You did not. The shirt isn’t that big of deal, but stealing a man’s breakfast pizza? That was just cold.” I get the dimple. “Oh, look. Lorenzo is working his way over here. You should cover up. That bikini is practically obscene.”

I punch him in the arm. “It is not.”

He whispers, “It’s sexy as hell. Maybe I just don’t want the Prince seeing you like that. Really, I don’t want anyone seeing you like that. Want to borrow my shirt?” He pulls his shirt off, revealing his muscular chest and tight abs. I want to run my fingers across them.

So I do.
 

“Tease,” he says, grabbing my hands and giving me another blink of a dimple. God, I love the way he smiles. I fight the urge to grab his face and start making out with him, but I’m on a mission and although I want the Prince to have to work for it a little, I don’t want to run him off when I’m this close.
 

Daniel turns toward the Prince. “Lorenzo, this is my friend, Huntley. We met a few days ago at an event in D.C., and when I mentioned I knew you, she didn’t believe me.”
 

“That’s not exactly right,” I contradict. “He was bragging about knowing you, so I rolled my eyes. Which he assumed was me not believing him and took it as a challenge, rather than accepting it for what it really was—me not being impressed.”

The Prince chuckles, which is good.
 

“It’s nice to see you again,” I say to the Prince. “Am I supposed to bow or something?”

“Only to my father, the King.”

Daniel laughs and points a finger at him. “He must like you, cuz he makes
lots
of girls kneel.”