“A skinny baguette and Nigel’s famous tuna salad.”
She opened the door, pulled him inside, slammed the door, locked, chained, and dead-bolted it, took the baguette and carton of tuna salad from his hands, laid them carefully on the table, and turned.
“It’s about time you showed up.”
“That’s what Nigel said. I like your T-shirt. She Who Sleeps with Dogs—does that include bad dogs?”
“Yeah, big lamebrain butt-biting, face-licking bad dogs.” She leaned up and bit his ear.
“I, ah, I came to talk.”
She backed up, folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve told you a dozen times, Drummond, there’s nothing to talk about,” and she gave him a manic grin and jumped him, her legs going around his waist, her arms around his neck, and he pulled her up hard against him, laughing, kissing all of her he could reach.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said into her mouth as he carried her down the short hallway to her bedroom, “maybe talk is overrated.”
He pulled off her glasses and tossed them into the bathroom where they landed squarely on top of the laundry hamper.
She stopped kissing him, pulled back. “Nicholas? Do you know Handel’s Messiah?”
“Yes, I suppose. Why?”
“I have this feeling that in a few minutes we’re going to be singing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’”
“Amen to that,” he said. “Nice bedspread.”
26 Federal Plaza
Monday morning
• • •
Mike hummed “Mamma Mia” as she stashed her newly replenished go-bag in her bottom desk drawer, and booted up her computer.
Nicholas had left her two hours before to go back to his house and change.
A red notice was flashing on her screen—a meeting had been scheduled with Milo Zachery. She and Nicholas had spoken to him a good half-dozen times over the weekend. Always, he had one more question. He’d never said a word when Nicholas had answered Mike’s cell. Mike admired her boss for that. She supposed that since they hadn’t heard from him in twelve hours, he’d made up a whole new list.
She grabbed a notepad and a pen, ran into Nicholas in the hall. She shoved up her glasses, gave him a si
lly grin, and patted the small butterfly bandage on his forehead, his only remaining injury from the mad time at Camp David. As for her face, her makeup was light since there was no more black eye, no more patches of green and yellow.
Nicholas got within six inches, but no closer. “Good to see you, Agent Caine. Been too long.” He looked her up and down, from her shiny blond ponytail, vivid eyes gleaming from behind her glasses with pleasure at seeing him, and that made him feel very fine indeed. He’d swear she glowed from the inside out. He probably did, too, he’d have to ask Nigel.
She was wearing her signature biker chick black and those butt-kicker boots. “I miss the little black dress, that was a visual treat, particularly with the boots.” As if he couldn’t help himself, he lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “You’ll get your Glock back today.”
“I sure hope so. I mean, if we’d been attacked over the weekend, I’d have had to bruise my knuckles protecting you.”
“Nah, you have your ankle piece, but if you’d like I could teach you to fight without using your fists.”
She laughed, couldn’t seem to keep it in. As for Mr. James Bond, he couldn’t look more different from her this morning in a lovely gray pin-striped suit, white shirt, and Italian loafers shined to a high gloss. “I gotta say, you sure clean up well.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Nigel wanted me to tell you he’s practicing enchilada recipes, wants you to come over and be his taste tester.”
That silly grin bloomed again, plastered itself all over her face. “I can’t wait. Come on, we’ve got to go see Zachery.”
They saw the updated threat matrix glowing on the wall of the conference room as they passed by. There was always something new, which meant, for them, that life was never boring.
They passed Ben Houston, who grinned and high-fived them. He stopped, cocked his head to the side, looked back and forth between them. Slowly, he nodded, smiled. “About time,” he said, and gave them a little wave and headed to the conference room.