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Of course, she’d find out about the body soon enough….
“Jane really outdid herself,” he told her simply. “You’ve got just the right look. I assume she told you about my history with sexy redheads?”
Miranda flushed. “If there had been more time, I would have done something to bring out more red highlights—”
“It’s perfect the way it is. Auburn, right?”
She nodded.
Ortega touched her arm. “This is an unconventional assignment, especially for a rookie. It’s okay to be a little nervous.”
“I’m just excited,” she countered, then she flushed again, fearing he’d misinterpret her enthusiasm.
“Great. So? I assume you’ve read the script? How would you like to proceed?”
Miranda gave her shoulders a small shrug. “Jane Smith seemed to think we should…well…fool around a little—”
“Jane Smith is a freaking robot about this kind of thing,” he interrupted, his jaw muscles visibly clenching. “I apologize for her.”
Miranda closed her eyes and was able to breathe normally for the first time since she’d entered the vehicle. “That’s okay.”
“Do you need a drink?”
“No. Not at all.” She gave him a grateful smile. “It really is an honor to assist you, sir.”
“How much did she tell you about my predicament?”
“You’ve been framed for murder. It’s outrageous,” she added staunchly. “No one would believe you’re a killer—”
“I am a killer,” he corrected her. “But not a murderer. So? What do you say we get acquainted? The old-fashioned way. By talking,” he added, his warm smile returning.
He had read Miranda’s file—in fact, he seemed to have memorized it—and asked thoughtful questions about her life on the ranch both before and after the accident that put her father in a wheelchair. He remarked on her awards, complimented her performance during training and smoothly integrated some suggestions regarding their upcoming dates, mostly having to do with her comfort level as he repeatedly reminded her that as his date, she always had the right to say “no” to any move he made. If at any time his pace made her uncomfortable, she had only to say one word to make him back off.
Just like a real date….
“According to your file, they’ve got you in some sort of language immersion program. What’s that about?”
“It’s something new they’re trying,” she explained. “Exposing me to twelve different languages at one time. Not so much to learn any of them, obviously, but to be able to recognize them, and identify key words, patterns, that sort of thing.”
“Have they said why?”
“No, but I’m dying to find out. Some assignment in an international hub, I’m guessing. Or—” she paused to smile “—maybe they just want to see what it does to my thought patterns.”
He nodded in agreement. “Has it affected your dreaming?”
“Not yet. But I’m supposed to keep a dream journal. Do you have a theory?”
“No. But it’s fascinating. You’ll have to tell me how it all works out.”
His mood was so calm, especially given his circumstances, the effect was almost eerie, and so relaxing that Miranda had to shake herself back to attention when the limousine drew to a halt on a side street two blocks from her apartment.
“We’ll walk from here,” Ortega explained, his tone suddenly brisk. “Remember, even though there’s no audio, we’ll stay in character—words as well as actions. You never know when someone might be a lip-reader.”
“I understand.”
The driver opened the door, and Miranda slid out of the vehicle, followed by Ortega. For the first time, she realized how tall he was, and definitely well-built in his black polo shirt and tan slacks. He was staring down at her, the bronze flecks in his eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting, and she barely noticed the limousine pull away.
“Ready?”
She nodded, moistening her lips.
He hesitated, then said quietly, “There’s something you should know, Miranda. I won’t be acting tonight. I’m extremely attracted to you.”
“It’s the hair,” she said, trying for a light tone.
“You’d be gorgeous even if you shaved it all off.” He cupped her chin in his rough hand. “Remember what I said. If I go too far, too fast, resist. I’ll slow it right down.”
“Okay. Thanks. And vice versa,” she added without thinking.
Ortega stared for a second, then chuckled warmly, and for the first time that night she felt as though she had surprised him. Maybe even impressed him.
It was a good feeling, and as she let him take her hand and escort her down the street, she reminded herself that she was more than a pliable rookie. She was a trained officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a lot more to offer than just auburn hair and video cameras.
She quickly learned that Ortega was a master at pretending. In fact, he turned their assignment into her best first date ever! He wanted to know everything—her favorite movie, favorite food, favorite book. He teased, bringing a smile to her lips again and again. And through it all, he was respectful and attentive.
And relaxed. She marveled at this above all. He had been framed for murder less than six hours earlier, yet here he was, bantering with her as if they were completely carefree. The alibi would succeed, she realized, not because of hot-and-heavy scenes, but because of this man’s attitude.
And the cameras had ample opportunity to memorialize that attitude, as Miranda and her date paused to chat on the doorstep, then again in the lobby. When the elevator arrived, she expected more of the same, and was surprised—and pleased—when he stepped up his attention just a bit, backing her into the corner and telling her in a husky voice how attractive she was.
Then he lowered his mouth to hers for an unscripted kiss so gentle, yet also so thorough, that she actually heard a small moan of delight emanate from her throat.
Ortega buried his face in her hair and murmured, “Nice touch,” sending a shudder of arousal right through her.
Conscious that her cheeks were flaming red, she darted through the elevator doors the instant they opened, then turned and motioned for him to join her as an afterthought. His eyes twinkled as he followed her to her door, and when she began fumbling for her keys, he reached for her again, his expression supremely confident.
But Miranda was ready, bracing her arms against his chest and pushing gently, her eyebrow arched in warning. And true to his word, he immediately backed off, a frustrated grin on his face.
“Let’s save something for next time, shall we?” she told him.
“Wednesday? I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“It’s a date.”
Unlocking the door, she swung it open, then watched as he ambled back to the elevator. When he turned to give her one last, impish smile, she felt another surge of arousal, and had to dart into the apartment and slam the door shut.
Oh my God….
She leaned against the wall, enjoying the sensation for a moment, then reminded herself they were on the clock. The script allowed a scant two minutes for her to change clothes, sweep her long, loose hair into a braid and redo her makeup, exchanging the gray eyeshadow for a vibrant rust with lip gloss to match.
Forcing herself to concentrate, she completed the transformation, then entered the hallway, doing her best impression of a female headed for a very, very promising second date. In the elevator she adjusted her bra and checked her makeup for the benefit of the camera, then she strode through the lobby and out onto the street. She knew Ortega would be waiting around the corner.
And she knew he’d be smiling that relaxed, confident smile that belied his dilemma. As she approached him, she again marveled that he could be so calm. And so handsome. He, too, had changed outfits in the limousine and was wearing jeans with a black turtleneck.
“Miss me?” he asked when she reached him.
“I just don’t get how you can stay so calm, Ortega.”
He took her arm and escorted her back toward her place. “I actually have an old relaxation technique—something I used to use a lot, then I slacked off. This seemed like a good time to resurrect it.”
“It’s amazing.”
“When all this is behind us, maybe I can teach it to you.”
“Thanks. I’d like that,” she murmured, surprised that he was again suggesting they’d see each other after the assignment was over. Did he see a future for them? Based on a couple of phony dates?
Phony dates that so far were admittedly better than the real thing….
“You’ll find it useful,” he assured her. “Especially if you keep working with Jane. Which I don’t recommend, by the way.”
“Why not? She’s the best, right?”
“Hardly.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close as they approached the front steps. “Ready? Showtime.”
Their second date was a lot like the first, with a heady kiss in the elevator that Miranda decided to enjoy to the hilt. To her delight, Ortega took the same approach, and by the time he hustled her out into the hall, there was an urgency that told the cameras this couple couldn’t wait to get inside the apartment. There would be no rebuffing him at the door this trip, and when she started fumbling for the keys, he commandeered them and had the door open before she could even pretend to react.
The script called for him to stay for five minutes, then leave without ceremony, looking frustrated. She had no idea what they’d actually do for those five minutes, although she knew what she wanted them to do….
But Ortega was all business the moment the door closed. “I’ll check in with Jane. You start changing for date number three. I’ll let myself out in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay.” She edged toward the bedroom, disappointed but reminding herself that this was a good sign. He was treating her like a professional. It was time she started returning the favor.
And she was glad to have the extra time to prepare for the big date—the one where they would be manhandling each other. Ortega was obviously attracted to her—either that or he really was the world’s best actor. But still, she wanted to drive him wild this time.
For the good of the mission, of course.
So she brushed her hair until it shone, then twisted it and fastened it behind her head with a rhinestone-studded butterfly clip. Now Ortega could nuzzle her without impediment, and if he wanted to be ultra-dramatic, he could pull the clip away and let her hair cascade down her back.
She was dousing herself with perfume when she heard the door open and close—or rather, slam, as the frustrated suitor left in a huff.
Laughing out loud, Miranda took a last glimpse in the mirror, then grabbed a black purse with a shoulder strap as her final accessory. She was almost giddy, and while she knew part of it was the prospect of making out with Ortega, she was mostly feeling proud. This assignment—a huge one—had gone perfectly. Ortega’s reputation would be safe and his appointment would go through without a glitch. Jane Smith would be so impressed, she’d invite Miranda to join her team permanently—
Except Ortega warned you against that, she reminded herself as she headed for the door. You’ll have to make him explain that when this is all over. Meanwhile, as he says, it’s showtime!
“How’re you holding up?” Ortega asked when she joined him on the side street.
His concerned tone surprised her, and for the first time, she wondered if she was really doing as well with this assignment as she thought she was. Then she decided he was just being a gentleman, so she smiled and assured him, “Piece of cake.”
He was wearing a strong, musky aftershave this time, and his hair was slightly damp, as though he’d been grooming it right up to the last moment.
Very convincing, she decided with admiration. He definitely seems like a guy intent on scoring tonight.
Intent on scoring, and also used to scoring. She had no doubt about that. He was more or less the sexiest man she had ever been this close to, and she figured he knew it. After all, he had worked undercover for years. Certainly in all that time he had seduced a female or two—for his country—and had probably found it surprisingly easy.
Speaking of easy, she warned herself, try not to be a total slut in the elevator. The script calls for you to enjoy him, not maul him.
Biting back a laugh, she let him rest his hand low on her back—so low it really wasn’t her back at all—as he propelled her toward her building. They flew through the doorway, clearly headed straight to bed. When the elevator didn’t come right away, Ortega began kissing her with greed and lust and several other of the very best sins.
As soon as the doors opened, he pushed her into the back corner and before the doors closed fully, he was devouring her, sliding his mouth down from her neck to her breasts, then lower and lower, until he was pushing her dress up to reveal her lace panties. Shocked, Miranda tried to think. Should she protest? Did he expect her to stop him? Was this part of the charade?
Then his teeth were tugging at the wisp of black silk, and she laced her fingers in his wavy hair. The script called for “mindless enjoyment,” and this was the very definition of the phrase.
“Ortega…” Her moan was slow and husky.
He seemed to take it as a complaint, and stood up quickly. Then he cupped her chin in his hand and murmured, “You’re just so goddammed sexy.”
The elevator opened and he whisked her down the hall, taking the keys and working the lock with one hand while holding her close with the other. Then he pushed the door open, half carried her inside, and closed it.
And then it was over.
Miranda leaned against the wall for a second, just to catch her breath. Then she straightened and gave him a smile she hoped was steady. “That went well, don’t you think?”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he murmured, “Yeah. You did well. Nice job.”
“Thanks.” She bit her lip, wondering if they were just going to stare at one another until dawn. “Would you like a drink? Or coffee? Anything like that?”
He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about an hour. At some point, coffee will be good. But for the moment, you’re off duty. Do whatever you want. Sleep. Shower. Watch TV. I’ll check in with Jane, then just…well, I’ll find something to do.”
Miranda stepped up to him, concerned. His confidence, his calm, seemed to have abandoned him, and she wondered if he knew something she didn’t. Maybe they hadn’t done as good a job as she thought. She was a rookie, after all. There were subtleties she might miss that an experienced operative would note.
“What’s wrong?” she asked finally.
“Nothing. Everything’s great. I just have something I want to say.”
She flushed. “You don’t have to thank me, Ortega. It’s my job—and my privilege—to help a patriot like you.”
“You don’t understand.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t take this the wrong way?”
She winced but nodded. “I promise.”
Ortega cleared his throat, but his voice was still husky when he told her, “I thought this part of my life was over. This feeling. This amazing, out-of-control, mind-numbing buzz. My God, Miranda, I swear I thought I was past this. But tonight, with you—”
He held up one hand to stop her from interrupting. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just thanking you. For making me feel this way. So foolishly optimistic. So completely inspired. I thought this part of me was dead. But tonight…with you…it’s the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever felt.”
She stared up at him, speechless for what seemed like forever. Then she whispered, “Thank God, Ortega. I thought it was just me.”
His dark eyes widened, then a grin spread slowly over his face.
And then to her shocked delight, he scooped her up in his arms—like some sort of brawny epic hero!—and carried her into the bedroom.
