Female Napoleon tilts her head. The cap stays perfectly in place. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“And you’re FBI?” Skepticism glinting even brighter in the detective’s eyes. “No disrespect intended. I’m simply confused. You don’t look—”
“Right. Because we’re supposed to pass for ad execs even when undercover. Dude, if we put a buck in a jar every time we got that…”
“My bad,” Logan mutters. “But begging your pardon again, and all things media mob being considered, why are you here? We’ve yet to determine if this altercation is a two-country concern or a misunderstanding on both sides.”
“Misunderstanding? You’ve got that much right.” Again, the cap is uncannily secure as she swings her head the other way. “And moreover, should be damn glad you all aren’t facing group and individual charges right now.”
“Damn. Cool the rocket fuel.” He darts a nervous glance my way. The stress doubles before he turns back to Lautrec and Degas. Though he is far from trusting them, I am of a different mind.
Those are solid names. They connotate nobility. But even before Kavia and her sorcery propelled me into this insanity, nobility was becoming a tarnished word. An honor no more substantive than dried ink on parchment. Paper that could easily be burned…
Logan grunts with enough frustration for us both. “Once again, with all due respect, why wasn’t anyone on my team informed about this? I would usually be called at once if the FBI had been—”
“Well, of course you would’ve been,” my gorgeous not-Magique cuts in. “If we were following normal procedure.”
Logan finally gets his full grimace. “And this time you’re not?”
She scrunches up her nose, which causes adorable distortions to her freckles, until she looks more awkward than the Queen Consort at the Grand Couvert dinner. But something tells me this gaffe will not simply add up to the king’s displeasure.
“Ermmm…no. I mean, we’re not. We’re definitely not.” Once more, her intrepid friend is the situational savior. “I mean, isn’t that obvious?”
“Obvious?” Logan double-takes. “Ohhh, shit. Is this a covert op?”
“Errr…yes. Exactly. Very covert.” Little Napoleon almost overcompensates by wrapping a possessive hand around the back of my bicep. “I mean, that’s why we were stunned too. We thought you at least knew who this was.”
“Holy shit,” Logan growls. “So that’s the scutts on the informational duck-and-dodge?”
“Shit. Sorry. We really thought you knew, man.”
Logan snaps around, stabbing me with a glare. “Damn it, De Leon—or whoever you are. You couldn’t have pulled out the special handshake for the dog in the trenches here? Some subtle heads-up at all?”
Two seconds of a glance from the green eyes that have hardly veered from me, and my instincts take over. The same instinct that tells me where to look for foxes in trees and spies at court has leapt to high alert, ordering me to go along with this ruse despite only comprehending every third or fourth word of it.
“Mon ami…secret handshakes are only possible if one has hands to use, oui?”
“Crap.” Logan motions at the guard standing closest to us, already motioning toward my back with a firm sweep of his closed journal. “Sorry about the crossed wires, man,” he offers while the officer frees me. “But tell the gang at Federal Plaza to shoot the prairie dog a little higher with the next op at this level. Then nobody ends up looking like an idiot.”
The redhead between us smiles with entrancing serenity. The expression scatters her freckles into new patterns and turns her mouth into the definition of elegance. “But sometimes it’s called infiltration for a reason, Detective.”
“Well-played, Agent Degas.” Logan shakes his head while returning his tablet to its interior pocket. “So how can I help you further? Do you need to give a debrief to anyone here? We ordered the Consul General and his staff to lock their doors and stay put, but I can have reception call them now if—”
“Thank you, but not necessary. As you can surmise, it’s probably best that we salvage and sanitize whatever we can. That’s best done elsewhere.”
“Of course.” He pivots around, indicating to the uniforms that they can return to their posts, which they answer with scuffing reluctance.
I glower, barely refraining from adding on more. No men on any of my patrols, at Versailles or elsewhere, would be so insouciant. Logan nods at my two gorgeous rescuers.
“Can I get your numbers and emails,” he asks, “in case I need any other details for my report?”
I hope I am the only one who notices how pale both the females turn. If Logan does too, I am certain no one will know it. The gentleman is fluent in the language of self-composure. The next moment, I am certain Little Napoleon attended the same subterfuge school.
“Sure. You can have mine.” She reaches for a device that Logan produces from an outside pocket this time. The thin rectangle is similar to his magical tablet but a quarter of the size. I attempt not to gawk as the woman taps rapidly at it with her thumbs. My fight is for naught once the front of it changes, as if responding to her actions. “Give a shout day or night,” she offers. “Sorry if you have to leave a message. Believe it or not, the service at HQ can be shit sometimes. I’ll call back, though.”
Before Logan finishes tucking the device away, I have been guided down the regal hallway, through a sumptuous room denoted as the bookstore—how are there so many books in here?—and then through a small door that should be illegal in its deception.
Dainty doors do not belong on kitchens like this.
I sweep around with an awe-stricken stare, but my new awe is overtaken by a larger perplexity. Why is no one in this mansion not using a single one of these modern culinary wonders? How is that possible? Unless this is their second kitchen… But how is that possible? I cannot imagine a cookery grander than this.
Ponderings I must, and do, set aside.
The most important matter is that we are finally away from prying gazes. I celebrate that by finally exhaling in full. But neither of my rescuers does the same. I should be more concerned but do not wish to be. It feels too wonderful to be fully on my feet, free of shackles on my wrists and trepidation in my senses. The immaculate floors in this place are much better appreciated without my face mashed against them. The stunning redhead at my side is no awful hindrance to the cause either, despite the scowl that crunches her sleek features.
“‘Give a shout, day or night?’ Are you kidding me?”
Her spew is so ferocious, I instantly assume they are sisters. But aside from their high cheekbones and full lips, there are not enough other similarities to support my supposition. The woman next to me is tall and curvaceous, with fire in her strides to match her distinctive curls. That is above and beyond the verdant spells in her eyes and all those gorgeous freckles. Her friend, now leaning against a big silver machine that hums in daunting ways, is shorter but formidable. I have no doubt that if the guards changed their mind and rushed back in here, she could knock them out of their boots and then force-feed the footwear back to them.
“What?” she retorts, folding her arms. “Should I have gone with something else?” And then bats her arresting blue eyes, obviously mocking. “Gosh, Detective. I’d totally give you my number, except I just lied about my name, occupation, and imperviousness to your hotness. But let’s go get some drinks and tapas sometime, okay?”