Elizabeth Bevarly - Express Male

“You haven’t had any sleep, either,” she said.

“I can go without it. Something tells me you can’t.”

Yeah, like the fact that he’d walked in on her fast asleep. She hoped she hadn’t been drooling. Or making those soft murmuring sounds of satisfaction out loud that she’d been making in her dream when he kissed her.

“So when can we go?” she asked.

“Any time you’re ready,” he told her, surprising her again.

“But don’t you have to…”

“What?”

“Debrief me or something?”

She remembered after asking the question that she was indeed wearing briefs, a realization that made her hope “debrief” really was the word spy types used in such situations, and not just in movies and on TV. Otherwise, things could get a little embarrassing.

When he smiled at her the way he did, she had a feeling he was thinking about the same kind of debriefing she was. Which was bad, because she wasn’t thinking about the movie and TV kind of debriefing just then. He really was very handsome. Even if he was a big jerk.

“I don’t need to debrief you, Ms. Lundy,” he said.

Ah, well. Story of her life.

She realized then that although he knew her by not one but two names—even if one of them was wrong—she didn’t know even one of his. And, gosh, a girl always wanted to know the name of the man who abducted her and made her life hell for a night. So she asked, “What’s your name?”

His smile fell some at that. “Why? Are you planning to write a letter of complaint about me?”

“And send it where?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about you guys except for your being under Homeland Security.” Which led her to another thought. “The woman who spoke to me said your organization is top secret and no one’s supposed to know about you. Aren’t you afraid that by letting me go home, I’ll spend the day on the phone alerting the media to my experience and your existence?”

“They won’t believe you,” he said with complete conviction. “Except for the media outlets who publish stories about alien Elvises and women who marry Bigfoot, and we’ve already been written up by them dozens of times. Those stories just reinforce how we can’t possibly exist anywhere outside someone’s delusion. Besides, if we find out you’re talking about us, we have ways of making you stop.”

Her blood went cold at the matter-of-fact way he said that. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yeah.”

“With what?”

He chuckled at her expression. “Don’t worry, we won’t kill you or make you disappear. But you’ll find out what all the ruckus is about identity theft. We’ll ruin your credit and tie up your finances and create debt for you where you never had it before. We’ll make you lose your job and your home and everything else we can think of. It’s not a good idea to piss off Uncle Sam.”

Unbelievable, she thought. But, alas, totally believable.

“I won’t say a word to anyone,” she vowed.

“Good.”

“So then you won’t mind telling me your name,” she added, not sure why it was so important for her to know.

He hesitated for a moment, then, “Noah Tennant,” he told her. “Code name Sinatra.”

Of course, she thought. With those eyes, what else would his code name be?

“Now if you’re ready to go,” he said, “we can leave anytime.”

“I’m ready now,” she told him. Actually, she was ready seven and a half hours ago. “But before we leave…?” she added, her voice trailing off before finishing the question.

“Yes?”

“Could you tell me if there’s a ladies’ room nearby?”

THE EASTERN SKY was stained with orange and gold by the time Lila directed Noah to an older section of Cleveland and a neighborhood of tidy homes built between the two world wars. The driveway into which she told him to turn belonged to a red-brick bungalow whose porch spanned the front of the house, and whose broad front windows sported window boxes awaiting spring planting. Terra-cotta pots, likewise empty of flowers this time of year, lined the concrete shelf wrapping the porch and a white wicker swing hung at one end. A quartet of hanging Boston ferns dotted the front, suggesting the owner had been impatient for something to grow, and yellow bug lamps glowed on each side of the front door.

Noah wondered who lived here and why Lila was pretending it was her. She could no more nurture plants—or feel comfortable in such a blatantly cozy house—than he could. He hoped she didn’t try to go inside. It would be difficult to explain the situation to the owners.

“Thanks for driving me home,” she said from the passenger seat as he dropped her car keys into her hand.

“You’re sure you have a ride coming?”

“I’m sure they’re right behind us,” he lied.

“Well…thanks again,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I appreciate it.”

She sounded exhausted, which he was certain she was after being interrogated all night, and glad to be home, which he was certain she was not, since this couldn’t possibly be her home. Nor could she be happy to be anywhere in his vicinity. He wondered how much longer it would take her to crack.

“I’ll follow you in,” he offered. “Make sure everything’s okay.”

She looked vaguely alarmed by his offer. Which she naturally would be. If he followed her in, she’d have to admit she didn’t live here. And she wouldn’t be able to run away if he stayed too close.

“That’s okay,” she said as she pushed open the door.

“I’ll be fine. It’s a safe neighborhood. And I should know, since I grew up in this house.”

Noah smiled indulgently. Of course she’d grown up in this house. It just screamed ruthless agent Lila Moreau. “Humor me,” he said. “I feel bad about what we put you through tonight, and I want to make sure you get all the way home safely.”

Still looking wary, she said, “All right.”

Her easy acquiescence put him on alert, and he quickly scrambled out of the car before she had a chance to escape. But instead of running, she made her way up the front walk, flipping through her keys until she found the one she wanted. Without hesitation, she strode up the stairs, shoved the key into the lock of the front door and twisted it.

To Noah’s amazement, the door swung open and Lila went in, turning to wait for him before closing it behind them both. Two cats—one black, one with orange stripes—came running to greet her, both skidding to a halt when they saw Noah.

“It’s all right,” she cooed to the cats, dropping down to a crouch. “He won’t hurt you. And I’m sure he was sincere when he told me how bad he feels for being so mean to me tonight.”

That last was spoken half over her shoulder, and Noah almost smiled. Even delusional—if indeed that was what she was—the true Lila kept creeping out.

Her word was evidently good enough for the cats, because both scurried forward again, bumping their heads into her knees, her hands, her hips. They obviously knew her well and were quite enamored of her. And she was clearly attached to them, laughing as she scrubbed them behind their ears and murmuring soothing words to explain her overnight absence.

Noah’s mouth dropped open in amazement at witnessing the scene. Lila purring to cats? Lila showing affection? What the hell was going on? Just what had she been doing for the past five months?

He drove his gaze around the room, taking in the furnishings that were as snug and pleasant, and as pre-World War II, as the house itself. An overstuffed flowered sofa and chair took up much of the right half of the living room, a white fireplace beyond it bisecting two sets of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed full of books. The mantelpiece played host to crystal candlesticks and cut-glass bowls, an antique clock and framed photographs whose subjects were indeterminate from this distance. Some were black-and-white, appearing to be quite old.