A Date with Danger Page 8

  I fold my arms. “No.”

  “You’re the Trojan horse not the army.” He straightens his cuffs. “Are we clear?”

  I give a venomous smile. “Absolutely. Now, when I go back to the table, am I a dull civilian or a horse?”

  He doesn’t even flinch. “Just run out the clock so he doesn’t get suspicious. Dig a bit more if you can. Be sure to order dessert.”

  “Believe me, I intend to.” I slouch back to the table. Charles is examining his teeth in a butter knife and looks up to flash me a smile.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, there was a line for the ladies room.” I sit and pick up my fork, but somehow my appetite has diminished, which is something that has never happened in the history of my relationship with Chinese food.

  “So, Charles, tell me,” I halfheartedly pick at my rice, “what are your hobbies?”

  “Well,” he folds his hands on the table, content to talk about himself, “I love horses. My parents have a ranch, and I go out there on weekends sometimes. It’s soothing to work with the animals. They’re really in tune with the things that matter . . .”

  With very little guidance from me, Charles steers the conversation through the rest of the main course and into dessert. By the time the dessert plates arrive, I’ve learned more about him than about people I’ve known for years.

  And said not another word about myself.

  Not that I care anymore. At this point all I want is my sugar. The restaurant’s best dessert—the Great Wall of Chocolate—is a towering mammoth of fudge goodness that almost makes the entire disastrous evening worth it.

  “. . . which is when I worked at the animal shelter and saved up money for the mission,” Charles is saying, hardly touching his food. If only we’d had dessert at the beginning of the night, I would have known not to waste energy being excited by him. Never trust a man who doesn’t like chocolate. “Dogs really are such majestic creatures.”

  “Yeah, they’re great,” I agree, forking another enormous bite of frosting into my mouth.

  Tilly appears with the bill, her mouth set in a line. “No hurry, of course,” she says, setting it on the edge of the table with more force than necessary.

  “I’ve got this,” Charles says, reaching for the check and giving me another wink. Tilly visibly flinches.

  Dude, put your winker away, I think. No tact.

  Charles slides a few bills inside and hands it back to Tilly without making eye contact with her. She hugs it to herself and goes away, looking like she’s about to burst into tears.

  Jerk.

  He looks up. “What?”

  Oh. Hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. Suddenly I can’t hold it in. Speaking low, I say, “How can you treat her like that? She’s clearly still hung up on you, and you’re pretending like she doesn’t even exist.”

  He looks surprised and then pitying. “It’s for her own good. If I give her any indication there’s still a chance, I’ll just lead her on.”

  “So the alternative is to pretend she’s suddenly invisible? How is that better?”

  “I’m not giving her false hope.”

  “No, but at least you’d be giving back a little of her dignity. You broke the girl’s heart. The least you can do is not humiliate her by acting like she has no value.”

  His eyes narrow slightly. “I would’ve thought you’d appreciate my approach. I’m on a date with you, after all.”

  “What I would’ve appreciated is being taken to a different restaurant when you realized your ex was serving our food. I think Tilly probably would’ve appreciated that too.”

  After a moment Charles stands and shoves his chair back. “You know, I don’t have to sit here for this. There are a lot of people who would be grateful to be brought to a nice place like this.”

  “In other words, there’s a long line of women just dying to date you.”

  He stares at me, his face twitching mutely with anger. Then he jerkily pulls on his jacket. “You know, I’m starting to understand why you have to date online.” He strides away from the table.

  I sit for several moments in jilted silence. Then I take another bite of chocolate cake and murmur, “I’ve had worse dates.”

  “Well done.” Damon is standing at the table.

  “Well done?” I repeat, my words nearly indiscernible with such a full mouth. “I drove him off. There’s no way he’ll ever speak to me again.”

  “We got a sample of how he interacts on his best behavior, and now we have a sample of how he acts when he’s angry. That should be helpful to the doctor.”

  “Well, I had it all planned, really.” Tilly is, thankfully, nowhere to be seen, so I wave at another waiter and ask for a to-go box. “I’m not leaving this cake behind,” I explain to Damon. When the Styrofoam box arrives, I pack up not only my half-eaten piece but Charles’s untouched portion as well. Thank you very much, Charles.

  “I’ll drive you home,” Damon says as I gather up my purse. “I need to instruct the first night watch.”

  “So what, you guys sit in the lot outside my place on a stakeout and look for suspicious behavior?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Again, two hours ago that would’ve sounded unbelievably cool to me, but the wind’s been taken out of my sails a bit. At least when I get home I can watch a movie, finish my cake, and try to forget the rest of the day.

  Damon is two steps behind me as we exit the restaurant. At the curb he puts a hand on my shoulder to signal me to wait for traffic. I hear a gasp of derision behind me and turn toward the side of the building.

  Tilly is standing there. Surrounded by a posse of furious waitresses.

  Just when I thought this day couldn’t get worse.

  “You’re unbelievable,” she hisses, advancing on me. Her face is puffy from crying, and twin trails of mascara mar her cheeks. “You sit there, right under my nose, and flirt with Charles.” Her voice catches on his name. “Then you drive him away with no respect and leave with another man!”

  “It’s not what you think,” I say, raising my palms the way they showed us at camp if approached by a wild bear.

  “Oh, please. You’re a man-eater. And why you had to pick poor Charles—”

  “Poor Charles?” I say, incredulous. “Charles is the one who dumped you and stopped speaking to you and then just treated you like garbage in there. I defended you.”

  “Yeah?” she snorts. “When was that? Before or after dessert?”

  I hedge. “Actually it was kind of during dessert. I didn’t plan it that way. But the Great Wall of Chocolate is crazy good—”

  “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t go to a different restaurant. Why you had to torture me—”

  “That’s exactly what I said!” I insist. “I told him we should’ve gone somewhere else.”

  “If you care so much, then why didn’t you just leave?”

  I hesitate, feet fidgeting. Because I’m undercover for the FBI, and I had to find out if Charles is a murderer.

  “I should have,” I say finally. “I should’ve stood up and left the minute I understood the situation, and I’m sorry. I can understand being angry with me, but you should also be angry with Charles. He’s the one who threw you away, then flaunted a new girl in front of you. All those things you said to me were good, but you should be saying them to him. It’s the only way you’ll ever get any closure.”

  Her arms are folded across her chest and her expression is black, but she’s listening.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t take a stand for you earlier,” I say, softer. “I know what it’s like to be treated like you’re nothing by men who claim they’re gentlemen. It hurts worse from that kind, doesn’t it? I’ve been where you are. But you’re not nothing. You’re worth so much.” My voice is trembling on those last words, and something i
n Tilly’s expression clicks into place. She takes a halting step toward me, and I slowly extend my arms, ready to embrace her, my heart swelling with sisterly solidarity—

  She slaps me.

  I reel, staggering a few steps. The other waitresses are cheering, and Tilly’s face is fierce with vindication.

  “That’s enough.” Damon steps forward and takes me by the arm to steady me. “You can’t understand this, but Jack did what she could in there. And for you to treat her like this makes you just as bad as that guy.” Everyone falls silent as he steers me into the parking lot.

  I’m massaging my jaw. I understand now why people always do that in movies. It hurts!

  “Well,” Damon says, “interesting night.”

  I glare at him. “I just got slapped in the face. By a girl.”

  “Actually her fist was partially closed. Technically you were punched.”

  “Oh, that makes it better. And she was wearing a ring. I think she cut me! Five minutes undercover, and I’m bleeding.”

  He chuckles. “Look, you tried to do the right thing. That gets us kicked in the pants sometimes.”

  We’ve reached the car, and I wrench open the passenger door. “Kicked in the pants?”

  “Yeah. I was editing to protect your sensitivity.”

  Rolling my eyes, I plop into the car.

  We don’t speak much on the drive. P. F. Changs is less than five minutes from my house, although I doubt I’ll ever go to that location again. I prefer not to be beaten when I dine out.

  “By the way, there was activity on your profile while you were in there,” Damon tells me. “Thomas Smythe wrote you back and wants to do lunch tomorrow.”

  Smythe, Smythe. I have absolutely no recollection. I’m going to have to review the dossier tonight. And start on the first draft of my medieval literature paper. Uggg. “Where’s lunch?”

  He takes a moment to answer, turning the corner to my complex. “Actually, he attends your university—”

  “There’s a possible killer on my campus?”

  “Well, statistically that was bound to happen at some point.”

  “Comforting. Where would Hannibal Lector like to dine?”

  He cracks a half smile. “In the upstairs cafeteria.”

  “What time?”

  “One p.m.—between your Women in Literature and your Advanced Theory classes.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “You know my schedule?”

  “I told you, I watched you for a while.” He pulls into a parking spot and glances my way. “I know everything about you.”

  Something flutters in my stomach, and I look away to retrieve my purse from the floor. “And you’ll be there, I suppose.”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe leave the suit at home,” I suggest. “You might look odd on a college campus.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I reach for the door handle and pause. “Am I good to go now?”

  “Yes. Agent Terigan checked your apartment, and it’s clear.”

  “He was inside my place?”

  “For security reasons, we need access. It’s the only way to ensure your safety.”

  “So much for privacy.” I open the door.

  Damon stops me. “If you need anything, we’ll be right down here. The panic button on your phone alerts my team. So if you press it, I come running.”

  “Goodie for me.” I step out of the car and then turn back. “If you were wearing a wire tonight, does that mean that everything is on the tape? Even . . . the stuff after?”

  His mouth twitches. “Yes.”

  “Stupendous.” I slam the door.

  9

  Swollen, purple, and split like overripe fruit, my damaged cheek greets me in the vanity mirror when I wake up in the morning.

  On my nightstand my new phone is queued up to the panic button.

  For nearly a minute I look back and forth between the phone and the evidence of my walloping. Leaden with the confusion of sleep, I wonder if all of that actually happened yesterday. Sure, I think I met the FBI and went undercover on an awful date. But that couldn’t have been real, right?

  With two fingers I spread the blinds and peer out the window. In the parking lot below, a black SUV sits, seemingly inconspicuous, part of my personal surveillance.

  My eyes widen. It actually happened. I’m an undercover spy!

  Man, I think, gingerly touching my cheek as I climb out of bed. Spy work hurts!

  I try to go about my regular morning routine, but as I get ready, I keep thinking, I’m undercover! Makeup conceals most of the bruising, but even so, my face looks different. I look tougher. With darker eyeliner and one of those head scarves women wear while driving in old movies, I could totally be a hot international spy.

  Donning my sunglasses and humming the James Bond theme, I tuck and do a stealth roll from the bathroom to the kitchen—thumping into a table leg and cracking my spine. That may need a little practice.

  I head over to the nearby school parking lot to ride the student shuttle to the main campus. As I climb onto the shuttle, I’m pretty sure I glimpse the Bureau’s car half a block back. I’m tempted to just ask the agents for a ride to school instead of hoofing it. But that wouldn’t be professional. And I’m a pro—as soon as I learn how to stealth roll correctly.

  My first class is biology—a general requirement I’ve been avoiding all my years in college. It’s held in one of the large lecture rooms, the better to pack in the students and give no individual attention to those of us who view science as a foreign language. I’m early for once. Usually I’m one of those who slinks in after the lecture has begun, has to do the walk of shame past the professor, and climbs over a dozen people to reach the one vacant chair. I unpack a notebook, textbook, pens, and half a bar of chocolate. It acts as my buffer to keep me from bursting into tears when I get confused.

  “Hey, Jack.” Peggy, a freshman with a long black ponytail sits beside me. We’ve chatted briefly and shared notes once or twice. “How was your weekend?” she asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Yeah?” She glances at me. “Anything new?”

  I start to answer when I’m seized with sudden suspicion. Why is Peggy so interested in my weekend? Is she some sort of enemy agent? With her exotic looks, she could easily be KGB. If the KGB is still a thing.

  Or maybe she’s just being polite.

  “Not really,” I lie. I don’t think I’ve ever told such a bold-faced lie before. Sure, I’ve told the occasional that-skirt-looks-great-on-you lie to spare a friend’s feelings but never something that was so blatantly untrue. Is lying still lying when it’s for the safety of the country?

  I maybe could ask my bishop.

  By the time I’ve suffered through biology (I ate the entire remainder of the chocolate bar and still felt confused enough to weep) and women in literature, I’ve nearly forgotten about my lunch date with Thomas Smythe. I skimmed the dossier last night and learned he’s an engineering student and works at Abercrombie. Same school and same mall. What are the odds?

  Hmm, I think as I hurry toward the student center. Maybe it’s a little too coincidental. He just happens to go to my university and work in the same mall as me? Maybe he set himself up in those places. Maybe he’s been putting this in place for months.

  Yes. Because he would anticipate my agreeing to help the FBI find a girl who hadn’t even gone missing yet.

  I’m losing it. I wonder if extreme paranoia is common in new spies. There’s probably some sort of name for it—Spy Suspicion Disorder or something. I need to keep it in check.

  I don’t spot Thomas when I get to the upstairs cafeteria, though I mostly remember a tannish guy with dark hair. I get in line to order my food anyway.

  The most coveted meal in the cafeteria is the chicken strips and fries.
It’s deep-fried goodness for less than you’d pay at a fast-food chain. This time of day, I’m lucky there are any left, and I only have to wait with my tray a few minutes before I’m served. I get two sides of fry sauce to go with it and grab a lemonade. I still don’t see Thomas as I get in line to pay.

  Paying for my own date. It’s not that unusual. In fact, when I go out I make sure to have at least twenty dollars on me. Because you never know who’s going to be cheap or have liberal views of equality. Or who you’ll need to get a cab to run away from when he goes to the bathroom. Oh, believe me, it’s happened before.

  I’ve just finished paying when I see a dark head sitting at a center table, facing away from me. I approach cautiously so as not to creep out some guy just eating lunch. As I near him, he turns his head.

  “Thomas?” I ask.

  He breaks into a grin. “You must be Jack.” He indicates the empty seat. “Please.”

  Well, we’re a long way from holding out my chair now.

  “Thanks.” I sit. Over his shoulder, I spot Damon a few tables down with an open textbook in front of him. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and looks strangely out of place in the clothing, like an actor who does period films. You’re used to seeing him in a tunic and tights, and then he’s suddenly in a modern movie, and the whole time you watch, you keep thinking, “Someone get this man a tunic!” It makes me smile a little as I situate my tray.

  Thomas has his own tray stacked high with mashed potatoes, gravy, and chicken-fried steak. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me so soon,” he says with a Cali-boy sort of laid-backness. “I know it’s kind of lame to get together at school, but I was too anxious to meet you.”

  If it’s a line, he delivers it like a well-rehearsed actor.

  “Likewise.” I smile. Two can play the fake game. “So you’re Thomas.”

  “Call me Tommy.” He picks up his fork. “You’re hotter than your profile pic.”