A Date with Danger Page 7

  I’m playing Plants vs. Zombies on my new phone and barely hear him.

  Agent Terigan is a tall (and I mean football-linebacker tall) black man with a shaved head and huge fists. They’re like two pumpkins coming out of his sleeves. When I first see him, I swallow my gum. Then I splutter for five minutes while he smacks my back with one of those pumpkins and tells me, “Spit it out. Just let it come.”

  He’s actually quite sweet as he escorts me through the building and down to a dark SUV. He even holds my door. I can’t remember when that last happened.

  “You’re very brave to do this,” he comments as we speed toward Orem. “Not many people would risk their lives like this.”

  That’s one way to burst a new-high-score bubble.

  “You’re awfully kind,” I reply. “Aren’t you supposed to be cold and calculated when you work for the FBI?”

  He gives a throaty chuckle. “My mom always called me softhearted, but it’s good for the job. The more I care, the harder I work.”

  “That must get tiring, caring so much.”

  “It tears you up.” He nods. “But I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

  “So,” I muse, “what do I call you? Agent Terigan? Mr. Terigan. Double O Huge?”

  He laughs again. “How about Samuel?”

  “Samuel, okay. I’m Jack.”

  He glances over to shake my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jack.”

  “Likewise, Samuel. I’d have gone with Double O Huge, but that’s just me.”

  With rush hour, we don’t make it to my place until five thirty. “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Samuel says as I hop out of the car. “Come down when you’re ready, and I’ll drop you off.”

  “You’re not coming in the restaurant?”

  “No, ma’am. I cover the exit while you’re inside. Less conspicuous.”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “I’m guessing you kind of stand out in a crowd.”

  I make a mad dash upstairs and start yanking options out of the closet. What do you wear on an undercover date for the FBI when your dining companion is a possible psycho?

  My first attempt—all black with a floor-length leather jacket and sunglasses—seems a bit much. I might as well announce to the whole restaurant that I’m an amateur spy.

  I’m a spy. So cool!

  Attempt number two—trying not to look like a spy—is the other extreme: a baby-doll dress, knee-high white stockings, and a pink ribbon in my hair. I look like I’m trying too hard to be normal. Or like I stopped shopping after I turned six years old.

  With five minutes left, I pull on a pair of dark jeans with a navy blazer. I slip on a pair of heels, throw my hair in a low ponytail, and head out the door, prepared to touch up my makeup in the car.

  It feels strange to have Samuel drop me around the corner from the restaurant. It’s like my dad taking me to school. Even the short walk has me wishing I’d rethought the heels. No turning back now, I think as I haul open the heavy mahogany door.

  Nerves have liquefied my legs, and my hands are trembling as I glance around. Even on a Monday night, the place is decently busy, and I wonder how Charles and I will find each other—

  “Jacklyn?”

  I turn and see the guy I vaguely recall from the dossier: platinum blond hair, toothpaste-ad smile, preppy-boy style. “Are you Jacklyn Wyatt?” he asks, holding out his hand.

  “Just Jack,” I say, shaking his. “You must be Charles.”

  “Yes.” He grins. “Your picture didn’t do you justice.”

  “Oh.” I make some awkward noise and brush back my bangs. It’s a line, but it’s effective. “You’re . . . very nice yourself.”

  “I have a table for us over here.” He sweeps a hand in the direction and then holds the other arm out to me.

  Is he kidding?

  His winning smile stays in place, his crooked elbow extended toward me.

  This guy is offering me his arm. He’s like Mr. Darcy!

  “Thank you,” I stammer and take his arm. I see others notice us as we walk toward our table—the girls with envy, the guys with surprise. Take notes, boys, I think. This is what a gentleman looks like.

  When we arrive at our table, Charles holds my chair out for me. Again I’m taken aback and shimmy forward awkwardly as he pushes me up to the table. “Thank you,” I repeat as he takes his own seat. “That was a new experience.”

  Charles gives a modest smile. “Sorry if it’s a bit much. My mom was big on teaching us how women should be treated.”

  “She sounds amazing.”

  “Oh, she is.” He beams. “She taught me about everything that really matters in life—faith, respect, and love.”

  Oh, my gosh. He’s like Mr. Darcy and a stripling warrior!

  “Well, thank her for me,” I say. “It’s very refreshing.” I glance to my right and am startled to see Agent Wade—Damon—two tables down, perusing a menu. For a minute I’d forgotten why I’m here.

  Right. This isn’t a real date. Focus, Jack.

  The hostess appears to take our drink orders and leave us with menus.

  “I hope you’re not sick of this place,” Charles says once we’re sipping our water. “I know it’s popular for dates.”

  “No, this is great.” I won’t mention that my last date took me to Costco to eat samples. That’s probably an overshare. “The lettuce wraps are my favorite. I could just eat those and no entrée.”

  “They are addicting,” he agrees. “We’re counseled against addiction, but it’s hard to resist temptation.”

  Damon snorts and I glance his way on impulse and then snap my gaze back to the menu. Don’t notice him. He doesn’t exist.

  “Hi there.” A pretty girl with thick caramel hair has approached the table, pulling a pad of paper out of her apron. “I’m Tilly. I’ll be your—” She looks up, and her striking green eyes widen. “Charles!”

  “Tilly.” Charles is rapidly turning pale. His expression leaves little doubt as to how these two are acquainted. “I didn’t know you still worked here.”

  Still? He’s brought me where his ex works? Stupendous.

  “I—” She looks shocked. “I transferred to Salt Lake, but then I came back to finish school.”

  “Well . . . good for you. And great to see you.”

  “And you. You look amazing.” She’s a little breathless staring at him. Eventually her gaze travels to me, and I so wish I could hide behind the soy sauce.

  “Who’s this?” she asks, her tone glacial.

  “This is Jack Wyatt.”

  “Your name’s Jack? What, all the girl names were taken?”

  I feel like she’s slapped me, but I manage to nod. “Yeah, but I’m on the backorder list, so here’s hoping.”

  Damon coughs, and I glance at him again and then back to Tilly’s rigid expression.

  “Are you on a date?” she asks Charles, her voice throbbing with betrayal.

  Charles sighs. “Yes, I am. Tilly, we were never exclusive, and we haven’t seen each other in months. Please don’t behave this way.”

  Now she looks as if he’s slapped her. “Fine,” she says, visibly trembling. “Would you two like an appetizer?”

  I’d rather call it a night than sit through the most awkward evening in history, but one look at Damon and I know I have to stick it out. For the missing girl.

  Charles is watching me to confirm if I’m willing to stay, and I nod very slightly. He nods in return and tells Tilly, “We’ll have an order of the lettuce wraps.” Then he gives me a tiny wink.

  Oh, dude. Don’t wink.

  Tilly scribbles on her pad so furiously the paper tears. “One order of lettuce wraps coming up.” She turns and stalks back to the kitchen.

  Yup. She’s gonna spit in my food.

  8

  The. Most. A
wkward. Ever.

  The lettuce wraps are delicious despite what Tilly may have added to them—also notwithstanding her withering glares each time she drifts near to serve another table. She must’ve passed the word in the kitchen because we’re getting glares from pretty much every waiter, hostess, and busboy in the place. Not that I blame them.

  Charles can’t apologize enough, insisting he had no idea Tilly would be here and that they’d only gone on a few dates nearly six months ago. Still, if I was him, I’d probably avoid P. F. Chang’s altogether.

  I wait until the main course arrives before pressing for information. “So,” I say, spearing a piece of lemon chicken, “Charles, you seem pretty put together. Why does a guy like you need to date online?”

  He chuckles. “I know. It’s generally thought to be sort of a last resort, isn’t it?”

  “It does have a kind of negative connotation.”

  “It’s just hard for me to meet women. Between finishing dental school and my internship with an oral surgeon, there’s just no time.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nod knowingly as I chew—like my career in folding jeans is equally demanding.

  “How about you? What led you to online dating?”

  Um, my meddling sister set it up, and now I’m undercover.

  “You know. It’s just hard to know if a guy shares my standards. Around here pretty much everyone’s Mormon, but you never know who actually takes it seriously.”

  “Exactly.” He smiles. “So many people in Utah seem to go to church because it’s expected, not because they necessarily want to.”

  I nod, poking at my rice. “I don’t want someone who has a testimony by default.” After a moment I look up and laugh. “Sorry. Too much information.”

  “Not at all.”

  I take another bite of my chicken, grimace, and dig around in my purse. As I’m pulling out the salt packets, Charles eyebrows raise. “Oh, um . . . needs salt,” I explain.

  “So you brought your own?” He sounds incredulous.

  “Well, you know, they never have it here. A lot of places don’t. Here they assume if you want saltiness, you can add soy sauce, but not everyone likes soy sauce. I’ve asked them before if they have regular salt in the kitchen, and they always look at me like I’m a lunatic.”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  Yeah. This was clearly the sane choice.

  I hurriedly sprinkle salt on my rice and stuff the empty packets back in my purse. “So have you been doing this online thing for a while?”

  He shrugs. “About two months. I’ve only been on a few dates, though.”

  “Oh, really? Were they as colorful as people say?”

  He laughs. “Just regular girls, mostly.”

  “No one who stood out?”

  “Not really. The biggest problem I have is finding someone as ambitious as me. Most seem content to have no real direction.”

  “Not an ambitious girl in the group?”

  “No. Well,” he pauses, “there was one girl, actually. She was from a grounded family and on her way to medical school. Very impressive.” He’s talking about her like she was a job applicant.

  “Well, if she fit your standard for ambition, why didn’t it go anywhere?”

  “I don’t know. She was maybe a little too ambitious, I guess. I mean, I like a girl with direction, but a doctor? That would make it really hard to raise a family.”

  Oh, I realize. He’s Impossible-Standards Guy.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for a woman having a career—any career she wants. I just need to be with someone who’s driven but without too complicated a future.” He smiles. “Like you.”

  Oh, my.

  “Yep,” I agree.

  “You’re studying literature, right?”

  “Mm-hmm.” All the better to analyze our kids’ bedtime stories. “So no risk for a future there.” I laugh, and he laughs with me, oblivious to my sarcasm. “I definitely couldn’t handle medical school. I faint at my own paper cuts. So you never saw that doctor girl again?”

  His eyes narrow slightly. “No, just the one date. I didn’t think it prudent to take it further.”

  “Decent of you.”

  Damon covers a laugh, and my eyes momentarily swivel toward him.

  Charles turns to look in Damon’s direction and points at him with his fork. “Do you know that guy over there?”

  “Hmm? What guy?”

  “That guy. You keep looking at him.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. Several times, in fact.”

  Crap.

  I nod very slowly, my mind working frantically. “Well, actually he’s”—I cover my mouth on Damon’s side—“I went out with him once, and it . . . didn’t go well.”

  “Really?” Charles lowers his voice. “Wow, the cards are really stacked against us tonight, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. Old flames are coming out of the woodwork!”

  “What went wrong? If it’s not too presumptuous to ask.”

  “He, uh . . .” I fidget. “He was just kind of insulting. Called me dull.”

  Charles looks affronted. “Dull? Well, that’s just not true.”

  “Thank you!” I say, more loudly than I mean to.

  “If anything you’re just . . .” He smiles again. “Safe.”

  I throw down my fork. “Safe, yes. Would you excuse me?”

  I jump up, and he stands as I leave the table. I’ve never seen this happen in real life, and I feel a momentary stab of longing, but then I think, Nope. You ruined it. Mr. Darcy would be ashamed of you.

  I saunter towards the bathroom but stop to fume as soon as I reach the marble alcove outside the doors.

  “Something wrong?”

  I nearly jump out of my skin. Damon is at my elbow.

  “Give me a heart attack!” I exclaim. “Sheesh! Why don’t you make noise when you walk?”

  “You didn’t say the safe word.”

  “I don’t feel threatened. I’m just annoyed. He started out so promising.”

  He snorts. “That guy? Seriously?”

  “He offered me his arm,” I argue, “and stood up when I left the table. And I bet he opens doors.”

  Damon blinks. “Which automatically makes him great?”

  “Opening doors is a big deal. Gentlemanly behavior is a lost art form.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever opened a door.”

  “Well, you should try it sometime. Girls appreciate it.”

  “Some of you do,” he counters, “and some find it an insult. We just can’t win since feminism.”

  “Let’s not argue about this now. How much longer do I need to question the disappointment?”

  “Well, I’m not picking up any red flags except the underlying chauvinism. He may just play the part well. But if anything he seems disinterested in Natalie.”

  “Yeah, it’s not him,” I agree. “If someone took her, they would have to be obsessed with her. This guy only seems interested in himself. He’s an impossible-standards guy.”

  Damon’s eyebrows scroll upward. “What exactly is that?”

  “You know, the guy who’s thirty in a get-married-at-twenty-one culture because he has a perfect woman list that no woman can live up to? ‘Driven but not too driven.’ What does that even mean? How can women compete when men have this huge list that no actual human being can live up to?”

  A busboy walks by lugging a tray of dirty dishes, and I lean nonchalantly against the wall and say, “How you doing? The wraps are great tonight.”

  Damon is smiling as the busboy passes, but it’s not a pleasant smile. “You don’t think women have a list?”

  “Of course we do, but it’s things like funny, tall, good personality. Not ‘must cure cancer before making bre
akfast for the children.’”

  “In my experience, women tend to have some pretty outrageous expectations as well.”

  “Again, this is not the time to argue. Aren’t you supposed to be keeping things on track here?”

  “So you think Natalie didn’t meet his expectation?”

  “Exactly.”

  “A criminal psychologist might say that would be a reason to take her. Sometimes people get fixated on a person who fails to meet their fantasy. They must be destroyed so the fantasy remains intact.”

  “Maybe with someone less in love with himself.”

  “And this is your professional opinion based on years of clinical experience?”

  “It’s based on my years in the trenches. Guys like this are all smiles and compliments, but he’ll never call again, and he’ll probably still be alone at forty trying to find Dr. Mom Barbie.”

  Damon surveys me a moment and then buttons his suit jacket. “Well, we have a sample of how he interacts. We’ll let the doc have a listen.”

  “The doc?”

  “Our criminal psychologist. We’re recording everything so it can be analyzed by a professional.”

  “But you said I wasn’t supposed to wear a wire!”

  “You’re not. I am.”

  I scan his person as though I’ll be able to see the thing poking out of his collar or something.

  “If you want to ogle me, you should wait until your date is over.”

  I flush red instantly and say, “Don’t flatter yourself.” Something I never thought I’d say because when you say it, everyone knows the accusation is true. “What about ‘people act strangely when they’re wearing a wire’?”

  “Yeah, people do. I’m trained. I can wear one without compromising the mission.”

  Normally I would’ve gotten goose bumps at the use of the word mission, but I’m throbbing with anger. “And what you said to Clemens—‘If we’re going to trust her, we better trust her with the whole thing’—that was just talk?”

  “We are trusting you. You’ve no idea what hoops I had to jump through to get a civilian put on something like this. Kidnappings are very serious, as I’m sure you can imagine. And with this time frame, I have one shot at this. So no, we’re not taking undo risks by wiring you, and professionals will analyze what intel we gather. Did you really think the analysis would be up to you too?”