Kate Donovan - Identity Crisis

McGregor whistled softly. “That’s gotta be it. The man’s insane for that woman, and it’s not hard to figure out why. Five foot ten with state-of-the-art implants. And if half of what he says is true…well, never mind.”

Kristie laughed. “We’ll get those lovebirds back together in no time. The Bureau gave SPIN a big budget for this case, so acquiring the Mustang quickly shouldn’t be a problem, even if we have to do a little restoration. As soon as we hang up, I’ll respond to Manny’s inquiry using one of our auction pseudonyms.”

“Like I said, you’re something else. Thanks for the help. Give me a call if you need anything on my end.”

“Wait! We’re not done.”

“We’re not?”

“Uh-uh. We’ve been given an amazing opportunity here, McGregor,” she insisted. “Manny’s vulnerable. We need to find a way to take advantage of that.”

“Just get the car. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Kristie smiled at his take-charge, impatient tone. A loner, just like everyone said. But it was time to teach him the usefulness of partnering with a spinner.

“Won’t you please hear me out?” she asked, and when he grumbled something that sounded vaguely like permission, she forged ahead. “Manny won’t be back to Rafferty’s for a day or two. But you should go there later tonight. And instead of being your usual charming self, you’ll drink too much and mope at the end of the bar. When the bartender asks what’s wrong, you’ll resist talking about it at first, then you’ll end up pouring your heart out to him.”

Pleased that McGregor hadn’t yet interrupted her, she continued. “You’ll tell him all about Melissa Daniels, the girl you’ve been seeing. She’s beautiful, wild, sexy, temperamental—and unbelievably jealous. She saw you having an innocent drink with your secretary and dumped you on the spot.”

A warm chuckle came over the phone line. “What’re you doing to me, S-3? I’ve got a reputation to protect with these guys.”

Kristie laughed, too. “You don’t really care what the rest of them think, right? You just want to be friends with Manny.”

“You figure when he gets back, he’ll hear about my broken heart and think we’re…what? Kindred spirits?”

“Right. He’ll probably start coming to the bar as soon as he knows the car is on its way. But until it’s actually delivered, he’ll still be in the doghouse in his wife’s eyes. You’ll have a few days to cry in your beers together.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” McGregor murmured.

“And as far as your reputation is concerned, all you need to do is tell the guys about some of your sex-capades with Melissa, and they’ll see you as a stud not a wimp.”

The agent was laughing again. “Sex-capades?”

“Right. You can draw on your own experience, or if you’d like, I could come up with some for you. Either way, lay it on thick. Like the story of the first time you met her. At a toy convention in Vegas. How the two of you had so much chemistry, you couldn’t wait to get upstairs to your hotel room, and ended up tearing each other’s clothes off in the elevator. Likewise with the first dinner date—you picked her up in a limo but never made it to the restaurant. Just drove around all night making wild, passionate love. And don’t even get me started about the first airplane trip you took together!”

“Those are the same sorts of stories Manny tells about his wife.”

“Right. He knows all about stormy relationships. The kind that can consume a person if they’re not careful. Jealousy, breakups, gut-wrenching arguments, exquisite make-up sex—the most obsessive, destructive, exhilarating addiction possible. Show him you and Melissa have—or rather, had—that sort of thing, and he’ll be putty in your hands.”

McGregor was silent for a moment, then proclaimed, “It’s effing brilliant.”

Kristie exhaled in relief. “I’ll have a courier bring you a snapshot of her tomorrow for your wallet. Something sexy but classy. We’ll rough it up so it looks like you’ve been carrying it around for a while.”

“You have a picture of this Melissa?”

“Computer generated. I use her a lot. She’s sort of a virtual operative. She usually has red hair and green eyes, but if you’d prefer something else, name it.”

He was silent for a moment, then said simply, “You decide.”

“Okay, red it is. Do you need anything else from me?”

When he was silent, she asked warily, “McGregor? Is something wrong?”

“I can’t keep calling you S-3. What’s your real name?”

Startled, she gave a nervous laugh. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I’m gonna call you Goldie then.”

“Pardon?”

“Because you spin lies into gold.”

She smiled with delight. “That’s sweet. And so much nicer than calling me Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Huh?”

“From the fairy tale.”

“Right. Rumpelstiltskin from the fairy tale. Is there anything you don’t know?”

“Minutia is my life,” she assured him. Then she added fondly, “Knock ’em dead at the bar tonight. I’ll arrange the sale of the car right away. With any luck, Manny’ll be back in Rafferty’s tomorrow.”

“It’s not exactly a life-or-death situation,” he reminded her. “Find the car tomorrow. I’ll call in the afternoon for the update.”

She wanted to protest, but knew it might scare him back into loner mode. So she contented herself with saying, “Good night, Agent McGregor. And good luck.” Then she hung up the phone and turned her attention to composing an offer irresistible enough to lure Manny Mannington into their trap.

And if she succeeded and decided to call McGregor back after all—just to give him a thoroughly professional and unemotional update—what monitor could possibly object to that?

It took Kristie six hours to locate a car for Manny Mannington, and while the mileage was higher than he had specified, she knew a SPIN crew could roll back the odometer and spruce up the details enough to fool the bagman and his bride. Predictably, Manny was eager to consummate the transaction as soon as Kristie made e-mail contact with him, and by 2:00 a.m., West Coast time, they had a deal.

Elated, she tried to reach McGregor in his San Diego hotel room but was only able to leave him a message. It was tempting to suggest he call her back regardless of the hour, but again she wanted to respect the loner in him, so she provided highlights of her coup in the message itself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to share the rest of the details. And she had to admit, her neck and shoulders were bothering her, courtesy of Ray’s knifing lesson, so she forced herself to be sensible and crawled into bed.

Coups aside, she was still achy and groggy the next morning. So she dressed in jeans and a black knit pullover instead of her usual bargain-basement suit before heading to SPIN headquarters, where Ray Ortega was waiting in the reception area.

“My office. Now,” he instructed her.

She followed him into the room and closed the door. “Am I in trouble again?”

“There’s a basic self-defense course starting the first of next month at my health club. I want you to enroll.”

“I told you, I already took a course. Plus, I have Betty Bop as my personal trainer. I’m ready for the big leagues.” She smiled. “But if your offer to teach me personally is still open, that’s a different story.”

“Last night reminded me why I can’t do that,” he told her, adding gently, “How’s your back?”

“I’ll live.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “If you hadn’t pulled that little switcheroo, I still think I could have kicked the ruler out of your hand.”