TWO
I didn’t escape from my day of diversionary tactics unscathed. A sudden rainstorm caught me unprepared on the way to meet Brent.
Shaking the water from the jacket I’d stripped off just inside the door, I stepped toward the hostess's podium.
Even in the usual dim lighting of the Manhattan restaurant, I could see she'd been hired for her good looks. I hoped she'd also been hired for her efficiency.
Drenched from head to shoes from the storm that had caught me unprotected, I was ready to sit and settle in before my dinner companion arrived.
"May I help you?" She smiled, flashing brilliant white teeth that stood out in stark contrast above the sea of black of her dress.
"I certainly hope so. I made a reservation for two under the name Tristan Fairchild."
The hostess looked down at the large leather book, open on her station. She dipped her head and my hopes rose that I was one step closer to a hot pot of tea, followed shortly by a Macallan. I didn’t have Zane Alexander’s money but after first meeting him five years ago, I too had decided to celebrate life’s little wins with the good stuff.
Getting inside and out of the rain seemed like a good enough excuse to indulge to me.
"Follow me, please." Grabbing two menus from beneath her station, she spun on one black high heel.
I did as told and, surrounded by the low drone of patrons, followed her as we wove a path between the tables of diners.
The restaurant had been my choice. I spent enough time in the city that never sleeps to have learned where I could get served a decent pot of tea, day and night.
After my first horrifying experience in this country years ago, when a waitress had delivered a mug of barely hot water with a teabag on the side, I'd made it my business to seek out establishments that served tea the correct way.
Just because I resided and worked abroad didn’t mean I had to live like a heathen. I hadn’t found many places that fit my standards, but those I had found had become my go-to venues. This was one of them.
The waiter, an older man who’d told me he’d worked for the owner since the place opened decades ago, stepped up to the table. “Mr. Fairchild. Nice to see you again.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Marcus. Though it would be more of a pleasure if this bloody rain would stop.”
“Let me hang your jacket.”
“I’d appreciate that.” I handed the item I’d dropped on the back of the extra chair to the man.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Most definitely.”
Although I wouldn’t be at all opposed to a whisky with dinner. Of course, Marcus knew my habits and would no doubt be back to offer it. Being a regular had its benefits.
“Tristan.”
I glanced up at the sound of my name and saw the man I’d first met a few months ago during one of the oddest scenarios I’d encountered since taking on this assignment in the States.
“Brent. Good to see you.” I stood as the American, one of the heirs to the Hearst family publishing fortune, stepped up to the table.
I extended my hand and shook his. I was tall, but Brent stood a good inch or two over me. If we added in the height of his wallet, the difference would be even more vast.
“Sir, something to drink?” Marcus asked as Brent settled himself in the seat opposite me.
“Yes. A bottle of the blonde ale. Thanks.”
“Of course.”
As Marcus moved away, Brent smiled at me. “So it’s nice seeing you when there’s not a gun in each of our hands.”
“Yes, quite. Though you handled yourself exceptionally well.”
“For a civilian.” His lips quirked up in a wry smile as he added the words I’d purposely left unspoken.
I laughed in agreement. “Your words. Not mine. And how is the third person from our little impromptu team doing?” I asked as Marcus reappeared bearing a tray with our order.
He set out the items in front of us and moved away as Brent narrowed his eyes at me. “She’s very well, thank you. And how did you know that I’d know how Alex was?”
I lifted the teapot and poured the aromatic steaming brew into the empty cup in front of me.
“It’s simple. I’m just that good.” Grinning, I stirred sugar into my cup.
Brent leaned forward, looking less amused than I was. “Well, since I’m sure your organization would never devote your valuable time to tracking my love life, I’m going to guess Zane told you Alex and I are together now.”
I smiled at his guess, but didn’t confirm that he was mostly correct.
After headquarters had cleared Alex of any connection to Moscow, my organization—as he’d called it—wouldn’t devote any assets to keeping track of her.
MI6 didn’t know or care whom she dated, but our mutual friend Zane Alexander had mentioned Brent and Alex’s budding relationship to me when we’d spoken on the phone.
Brent scowled. “Considering he had all sorts of high level clearance while he was a Super SEAL, and was no doubt privy to all sorts of secrets I can’t even imagine, Zane sure does like to talk a lot.”
I’d seen Zane in action while he’d been in the SEALs, but I couldn’t speak to what secrets he was privy to then. Though I did know that chatting about a mutual friend was one thing and operational security quite another.
I saw no reason to discuss the finer points of that with Brent, so I changed the subject. “So, what else have you been occupied with, besides the lovely Alex that is?”
My real question was why he had contacted me out of the blue and asked for this meeting? I guess we had all evening to get to that if he wanted to spend a bit of time on small talk first.
Brent drew in a breath as any hint of humor in his demeanor fled. “I need your opinion on something. Zane’s acting like everything’s fine, but I’m not so sure and quite honestly, I’m concerned.”
When his sentence stopped there, I prompted, “Concerned about?”
I could see from his pained expression this was something serious.
The cell I used only for communicating with the home office vibrated. I held up one hand to interrupt Brent. “Pardon. My apologies, but I need to take this call.”
I stood and pulled the cell out of my pocket. The caller ID of course said UNKNOWN but I knew who it was. Only one person had this number. I made my way to the back of the restaurant and the moderate privacy of the hallway that led to the restrooms.
“Collins,” I said by way of greeting.
“Fairchild. Can you talk?”
What was this about? It wasn’t time for our scheduled check-in.
“A bit,” I answered, glancing around me.
“We’re calling you home.”
After taking a beat to digest that statement and all that it meant, I said, “Pardon?”
“You’re done there. Pack up everything. Tie up any loose ends. You have until the end of the month.”
The end of the month was next week. I’d been here for two years. There were more than a few loose ends, as he’d put it.
I was on long-term assignment in the States and was scheduled to be here indefinitely. I’d figured that would be at least until I’d gotten the evidence I was still waiting for from Ivan. I anticipated another communication from him any day.
During the past two years I’d taken short trips back to the home office, but this sounded more like a permanent recall. A reassignment.
Why? And why now?
“Collins, I’m close to getting what we need. Possibly weeks away from—”
“This order has nothing to do with your assignment. It comes from far above me. The top, in fact.”
The prime minister? What did that mean?
“Everyone or just me?” I asked.
“Everyone in the States and in danger.”
I was always in danger. A man didn’t choose a profession with MI6 to be safe. But that the home office believed I was in more danger now—enough to call me home—was telling.
I might not own a television but I kept up with the news online. I was very well aware of what was happening with international relations—particularly between Russia and my own country.
Spies and their families being poisoned at their own front door had every one of us in that profession a little bit on edge. The fact my assignment was to investigate Russia’s foothold in the States made me even more so.
I was good and I was careful. Not to mention I was undercover. Even within my own organization, only a small handful of people knew what my true assignment was. And the very few Americans who knew I was MI6 all believed I was here maintaining my cover while waiting for an assignment.
If I’d done my job well, I was still under the radar of both the good guys and the bad. My name wouldn’t be on Moscow’s hit list of enemies who needed to be eliminated.
Even if I did have a target on my back, I was too close to my goal to leave now. Today’s message from my contact had been a setback, no doubt, but it was a small one. He’d be in touch. We’d reschedule. I was sure of it.
“I need more time,” I said.
“No.” The answer came fast and with an air that said there was no use in arguing, so I wouldn’t.
Jaw set, I drew in a breath. “I’ve got to go.”
The noise around me would serve as a reminder to Collins I wasn’t in a secure location. We really couldn’t discuss this in any further detail here and now.
“Call me when you’re back in the country.”
“I will.” I disconnected the call before my annoyance with my new orders became more obvious. I could lie with the best of them, but I was too bloody angry to bother now.
I tried to hide my mood as I strode back to the table and sat opposite Brent. “Sorry. Please, go on. You wanted my opinion on something?”
Brent tipped his head. “Two days ago, Zane stopped by my place in Alexandria and casually asked if I’d heard from his office manager Chelsea . . .”
Brent’s mention of Chelsea had my head whipping up.
He frowned at my reaction. “You know her?”
“Yes, actually. We’ve met.”
Met. Worked an assignment together. Spent the night together . . .
And judging by my reaction to simply hearing her name, that wasn’t enough to quench my thirst for the woman and get her out of my mind.
I cleared that memory from my head and asked, “And why was Zane asking if you’d heard from Chelsea?”
“Because she’s missing.”
For the second time in just minutes Brent had gotten my complete attention. “What do you mean missing?”
I needed him to give me fewer words and more facts as my concern grew. I knew Chelsea well enough to understand that her lack of fieldwork experience was equaled by an enthusiasm that made her dive in headfirst and unprepared. It was a dangerous combination.
“Zane hasn’t heard from her so I had Alex try contacting Chelsea. They’ve kind of bonded over being the only two females working out of the D.C. office, so after Zane’s revelation Alex texted and then started calling Chelsea’s phone.”
“And?” I asked, agitated now as genuine worry for Chelsea began to take hold of me.
“No answer. And now the calls go directly to voicemail.”
I set down the teacup I’d been about to raise to my lips. “And Chelsea didn’t give Zane any indication that she was taking some time off?”
Brent lifted a shoulder. “Not that I know of. But as I said, Zane likes to keep me in the dark on most things.”
That might be true. Brent was a civilian who just happened to get tangled up in an operation Zane had been working, forcing us all to work together a few months back. But I’d be damned if Zane treated me the same. I was no inexperienced civilian and I was not about to be kept in the dark.
“We’ll see what he has to say when I ask.” I stood and yanked my second cell phone—the one I used to call everyone other than headquarters—out of my opposite pocket and sat again.
I typed in a text to my good old friend Zane Alexander.
IS CHELSEA MISSING?!
In a move that was completely out of character for me I’d actually used all caps and an exclamation point.
I suppose I could have crafted the message a bit better but time was of the essence if Chelsea really had been missing for—how many days had Brent said? Two since Zane had mentioned it to him and I didn’t know how long he had taken to make the query.
What I wouldn’t admit to Brent or Zane, because I was having enough trouble admitting it to myself, was that the memories of the one night I’d spent in Chelsea’s bed months ago haunted me still.
That simply didn’t happen to me. During the too rare occasions I allowed myself to indulge in women and sex, unless the relationship was a required part of an assignment, I was a one and done kind of bloke.
I had to be, given the nature of my profession.
Chelsea made me want to change that—which was bad enough before and even worse now if she were actually missing. There was no doubt in my mind I wouldn’t rest until she was found.
The cell vibrated with an incoming text.
Who the fuck told you that?
I drew back as I read Zane’s reply, which had done more to reaffirm what Brent said and did nothing to assuage my growing fear for her safety.
“What? What did he say?” Brent asked, leaning forward, his eyes focused on me.
“Not much. The man’s very good at not answering questions.” But reading between the words told me one thing—Zane wasn’t as casual about this situation as Brent had assumed.
“Right? He does that to me all the time.” Brent leaned back in his chair again, scowling.
Perhaps he did, but Zane wasn’t going to get away with it with me. Not when it pertained to Chelsea.
I typed a reply of my own, this time controlling myself and turning off the all-caps.
Answer the bloody question. Is she missing?
I hit to send my message as my pulse sped, my mind spinning as I began planning, calculating how quickly I could get to D.C. and what I needed to do once I got there.
My gaze flew to the display on my cell as it vibrated in my hand one more time.
It appears she might be.
My pulse, impossibly, pounded faster. My reply was riddled with typos that thankfully auto-correct fixed before I hit send.
I’m coming down there.
When Zane’s reply came fast and contained no argument to my plan I knew he was concerned.
Okay.
I swallowed and raised my gaze to Brent.
“What did Zane say?” he asked.
“He agreed I should come down.”
Brent shook his head. “Shit. That means he’s worried.”
My thoughts exactly. This wasn’t just a girl skipping work to nurse a hangover or to jet off for an impromptu holiday. If a veteran, combat hardened SEAL said she was missing, however much he’d couched his words, then she was good and truly gone.
“I need to get to Virginia.” Glancing around, I looked for Marcus to get the bill.
Brent stood and in one smooth motion signaled for the waiter and pulled out his cell phone at the same time. He sat again as he punched in a text.
“I’m ordering the Hearst jet.” He glanced at me. “Can you leave tonight?”
“Yes, but—”
“Tristan, you’re worried. I can see it. That tells me I was right to be concerned. You need transportation. I have access to it. Let me do this. For Chelsea.”
Brent made sense so I accepted the help. “All right. Thank you.”
“No problem. So what’s your plan when you get there?” he asked
“I’m going to break into her flat.”
Brent’s gaze whipped to me. He swallowed. “Oh. Good plan.”
I thought so.
When Marcus arrived at the table with a black leather portfolio that contained our bill, Brent stood once again. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, drew out a credit card and slid it into the portfolio before handing it back to Marcus.
As we sat and waited for his card to be returned my mind continued to work—and where it landed wouldn’t let me rest.
Eyeing Brent, I tried to remain objective and evaluate the situation. I was having trouble doing so.
Finally I couldn’t control myself. “Mind if I ask you why you’re so concerned about Chelsea? Are you two . . . involved?”
The word I chose didn’t come close to the word I really wanted to use.
I suddenly desperately needed to know if Brent Hearst, American billionaire, was shagging the woman who’d somehow gotten so deeply under my skin it was starting to become obvious she could easily be a danger to my well being.
“I already told you, I’m with Alex.”
“Yes. And?” I asked.
Brent’s being with Alex definitely did not preclude his being with Chelsea too, either now or in the past.
Even so, why in the bloody hell was I asking him a question I was sure I didn’t want to know the answer to?
Was this jealousy?
If it was, I’d better squelch it and bloody fast. I needed one hundred percent of my concentration, not just to find Chelsea, but to keep myself and my informant alive. I was juggling too many very sharp knives not to have my head completely in the game.
A frown creased Brent’s brow. “No, there’s never been anything between me and Chelsea, but you’re not the first to ask that question.” I wondered who else had asked him as he continued, “I’m concerned, and I’m helping any way I can because if it were Alex who’d gone missing I’d want every resource helping to locate her.”
I nodded. I believed the man.
Worry might be twisting my gut but I still trusted my instincts and they told me he wasn’t lying.
I’d seen Brent with Alex. Even when she’d had him pinned on the ground with the heel of a deadly looking Louboutin poised to take out his eye, I could have cut the emotional and sexual tension between them with a knife.
“So, I’m going to assume that you and Chelsea are involved.” Leaning back in the chair with his arms folded, Brent pinned me with a stare.
I cocked a brow high, as if the notion were ridiculous. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He scribbled on the receipt Marcus had silently laid on the table. As Brent slid his credit card into his wallet, he looked at me. "You have a car here?"
"No." A personal vehicle was more trouble than it was worth in Manhattan. Instead, I kept my car in Virginia where I spent a good amount of time.
“I've got my Land Rover here. I'll drive." Brent stood. "Ready to go?”
I stood too and accepted my jacket from the ever-capable waiter. “More than ready.”
“It’s not going to be a problem for you with work if we leave tonight?” Brent asked as we headed for the exit.
“No.” I shook my head. “Definitely not.”
MI6 could bugger off. Chelsea was more important.