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Obviously not, or he wouldn’t have asked. “Heard what?”
“He was in a car accident this morning. He’s in critical condition at Bethesda. The DDO is taking over until and if he comes back. Word is the doctors aren’t optimistic.”
“Shit.” The news hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. He’d worked for Frank Vinay for years, and respected him as he did no one else in the pickle factory. Frank might dance through the daisies when he was dealing with politicians, but with the field officers under him, he’d never been anything but straight, and willing to stand up for them. In Washington, that was not only unusual but almost suicidal, careerwise. That Frank had not only survived but advanced in his job, first as DDO and now as director, was a testament to his worth—and his skill as a dancer.
“Anyway,” the woman said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Swain had to be satisfied with that, because he could imagine the uncertainty and jockeying for position that was going on across the pond. He knew the deputy director, Garvin Reed; Garvin was a good man, but he wasn’t Frank Vinay. Frank had forgotten more about spy craft than Reed had ever known, plus Frank was a genius at reading people and seeing layers, patterns, where no one else did.
Swain felt uneasy about his own status, as well. Frank’s solution for handling the Lily problem might not be the same as Garvin’s. Garvin’s view of the Nervis might not be the same as Frank’s. Swain felt as if his tether to the mother ship had been cut and he was drifting away; or, to use another metaphor, he had already been skating on thin ice by delaying the purpose of his mission, and now he could hear the ice cracking beneath him.
Fuck it. He’d keep to the same course until he was either jerked off the mission or told to alter it—not that he hadn’t already altered it, or at least delayed it, but no one knew that except him. When in doubt, plow ahead. Of course, the captain of the Titanic had probably had the same philosophy.
He didn’t sleep well the rest of the night, which made him crabby when he woke up the next morning. Until, and if, the computer geeks came through for him, he didn’t have anything to do, other than driving by the lab and mooning the guards. Since the weather was chilly, his ass would get cold, so mooning was out unless he was really provoked.
On impulse he grabbed his cell phone and dialed Lily’s cell number, just to see if she’d answer.
“Bonjour,” she said, making him wonder if perhaps she didn’t have Caller ID on her cell phone. He couldn’t imagine her not having it, but maybe she answered in French out of habit, or precaution.
“Hi, there. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“I’m still in bed, so no, I haven’t eaten.”
He glanced at his watch: not quite six. He’d forgive her for being lazy. In fact, he was glad he’d caught her in bed because she sounded sleepy and soft, without the usual crispness to her voice. He wondered what she wore to bed, maybe a skinny little tank top and her panties, maybe nothing at all. She definitely wouldn’t wear something slinky and see-through. He tried to imagine her in a long nightgown or a sleep shirt, and couldn’t. He could, however, imagine her naked. He imagined it so well that his johnson perked up and began to swell, requiring a firm hand to keep it under control.
“What are you wearing?” His own voice came out slower and deeper than usual.
She laughed, a startled sound that seemed to burst out of her. “Is this an obscene phone call?”
“It could be. I think I feel some heavy breathing coming on. Tell me what you’re wearing.” He imagined her sitting up against the pillows, tucking the covers under her arms, pushing her tousled hair out of her face.
“A flannel granny gown.”
“Liar. You aren’t a granny-gown type of woman.”
“Did you call for any reason other than to wake me up and find out what I’m wearing?”
“I did, but I got sidetracked. C’mon, tell me.”
“I don’t do phone sex.” She sounded amused.
“Pretty please with sugar on top.”
She laughed again. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because my imagination is killing me. You sounded so sleepy when you answered, and I pictured you all soft and warm under the covers. Everything grew out of that.” He gave his erection a wry glance.
“You can stop imagining. I don’t sleep raw, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then what are you wearing? I really need to know, so I can be accurate in my fantasies.”
“Pajamas.”
Damn, he’d forgotten about p
ajamas. “Shorty pajamas?” he asked hopefully.
“I switch to long ones in October, and back to short ones in April.”
