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“He’ll find that you’re exactly who you say you are. He’ll find society page articles mentioning you. He’ll find an article on Craig Jamieson’s death that mentions his grief-stricken widow, Niema. Don’t worry; your cover will stand up to any scrutiny.”
“But what about the ambassador and his wife? They obviously know I’m not an old family friend.”
“Yes, but they’re accustomed to covers. You know how many Agency personnel are in our embassies. It’s standard.”
“Then why won’t Ronsard suspect me?”
“Because you aren’t staff. Believe me, they know, or have a good idea, who is Agency and who isn’t.”
She took a deep breath. “When do I leave?”
He pulled a ticket folder from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Tomorrow, on the Concord.”
“Cool.” Her eyes lit. She had always wanted to fly on the supersonic jet. “When will you get there?”
“You won’t see me until we’re both at Ronsard’s villa. If he doesn’t invite you—” He broke off and shrugged.
“Then I won’t see you again.” She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, but inside she didn’t feel that way. In just a few days he seemed to have become the central element of the excitement she felt. But she had known from the beginning how things would be, known that he would leave as abruptly as he had appeared.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but I’ve worked with you before, remember? When the job’s finished, you disappear. And now that I know who you are, I know why.”
“Niema . . .” He put his hands in his pockets, looking oddly ill at ease. Medina was always in such control of himself that his expression diverted her. “I’ll be back. That’s all I can say now.”
She was immediately intrigued, and alarmed. Did he mean he wanted to use her on another job? Part of her wanted to shout “Hell, no!” but deep inside was a yearning, a craving for more.
Common sense took the upper hand. “This is a one-time deal, Medina; don’t bank on sucking me into another job. I don’t get hazardous-duty pay, you know.”
“Of course you do.”
Taken aback, she warily eyed him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you get a hefty bonus for this.”
“Oh, great! That means anyone in payroll—”
“Nope. This is black ops, remember? Everything comes out of an off-books account. And try to call me John, instead of Medina. John’s a fairly common name, but there are a lot of people in this town who would perk up their ears if they heard you call me Medina.”
Reluctantly she said, “John.” She preferred thinking of him and referring to him as Medina; that kept him at a certain distance, at least in her mind. She was having a difficult enough time battling her attraction to him as it was. “Back to my original statement: This is a one-time deal. It has to be.”
Hands still in his pockets, he wandered over to the kitchen window and absently fingered the hook and eye latches she had installed. For the past two mornings he had been reduced to wriggling through a damn small bathroom window, and the fit was so tight he had to do some major contortions to get in. She was so pleased with those little latches that he didn’t tell her he’d figured out a way to unlatch them. The average burglar wouldn’t have the means of doing it, and anyone who really, really wanted to get into the house would simply break a window anyway. The ordinary citizen usually couldn’t afford the safety measures that would make a house truly burglar-proof, but then the ordinary citizen didn’t need to go to that effort and expense.
“Don’t think you can ignore me,” she warned.
He gave her a brief, warm smile as he turned away from the window. “I’ve never thought that.”
Both the smile and the statement rattled her. Deciding to change the subject, she took a deep breath. “Let’s get back to the plan. What happens when—if—I wrangle an invitation to Ronsard’s home? What if you aren’t invited for the same time?”
“I’ve already received an invitation. Ronsard is hosting a formal party in ten days. He does it annually, as sort of a repayment to all the people who look the other way when delicate situations arise concerning his occupation. The security is extremely tight, even tighter than normal, because of so many people in the house. He would consider the meeting with me more controlled. If Ronsard invites you to the party, accept. If he merely invites you to his house for a visit, decline. That will only whet his interest.”
“What I know about whetting interest would rattle around in a peanut shell,” she muttered.
He grinned. “Don’t worry, Mother Nature took care of that. We men are easy. We don’t require much more than that a woman be breathing, and we’re interested.”
She tried to take umbrage, but instead found herself laughing. “That simple, huh?”
“Compared to women, we’re amoebas. Our brains only have one cell, but it’s dedicated.”
