“Wait. Say goodnight, Gracie,” she called to me. I’d memorized the old George Burns and Gracie Allen routine that my parents had played over and over in my childhood. The next line was mine.
“Goodnight, Gracie.” I smiled and carried my tart out to the car.
Chapter 2
Caution: Trespassers May Be Charming, Tempting, and Altogether Heart-Stopping
A few years ago, I’d saved up enough money to buy a little house on the corner of Spruce and Maple Streets, a funny misnomer since there wasn’t a spruce or a maple tree anywhere in sight. It was a two-bedroom bungalow with a screened-in porch, squeaky floors that showed character, and a small mortgage that fit my budget. It had a postage-stamp front yard in need of mowing, and a larger backyard grown beyond what a traditional lawn mower could be expected to handle.
After I bought the house, I’d painted it white with blue trim, while in my mind singing the line about white dresses and blue satin sashes from The Sound of Music over and over.
Would someone “butch” do that?
As I made it home, my head still spun from tonight’s intervention. Like sending a devout Mormon to Alcoholics Anonymous, the twelve steps promised healing, but without those particular wounds, not a lot of progress would be made. I would rack my brain over the next several hours trying to figure out where they got the idea I was gay. As I pushed the key in and turned the knob, I stopped. The lock was already undone.
I bit my lip to hold back a smile as my pulse rate increased. I tried to remember locking the door when I left, but it was such a common thing, I couldn’t. Besides, a locked door never stopped this intruder. I glanced around and nothing else seemed out of place, so I pushed the door open and eased into the kitchen.
He stood next to the breakfast bar, holding out a delicious-looking mojito. “After tonight, I thought you could use this.”
Jayce Jackson was one of those people whose features weren’t extraordinary when taken piece by piece—amber eyes, light brown hair with a little curl, a nice smile. But somehow the whole created more than the sum of the parts. He had charisma oozing from him and pheromones so strong they could take down a lioness. But most of all, he had a way of talking to me like I was the only other being on earth and I mattered. He wore a light-blue dress shirt, rolled at the cuffs and tucked into a pair of designer jeans. He looked casual but dressed up at the same time.
“Jackson.” I tried to act cool as I took the drink and sipped. It was perfect. One of these times, I’d ask him how he got in, but I felt a little scared to find out, and I didn’t want to discourage a repeated appearance. “What brings you here?”
He poured himself a drink from the pitcher he’d prepared. “Can’t I stop in to say hi to my favorite Q?” He garnished his with mint, sipped, and grimaced. “Oh, that’s sweet.”
“Yeah. They were designed to make sorority girls friendly. Not exactly for your stiff-drink crowd.”
He sipped again. “But they are your favorite, aren’t they?” He leaned across the bar toward me. “That makes it worth the effort.”
Lord, give me strength. A jolt of electricity shot from my weakening knees and radiated up into my girl parts. Trying to be smooth, I sidled up to the bar stool, sat, and crossed my legs, figuring the more barriers between my parts and Jackson’s parts, the better. “Jackson, it’s been a long night, and although I appreciate the drink…”
“You’d like to know what I’m doing here.” He stood, moved to my side of the counter, and sat on the second barstool.
An involuntary sigh escaped my lips as he flashed his dimple. I couldn’t help it. I was as muddled as the mint in my drink.
“I need something from you.”
Several of the things I hoped he might need flashed through my head. Suddenly warm, I took a deep sip of my drink.
He put his elbows on the counter and leaned in toward me. “I need a distraction device.” Taking a quarter from his pocket, he flipped it into the air and snatched it just before it dropped. He rolled it through his fingers and brought it close to my cheek. I licked my lips and held my breath as he pulled in closer and held the coin between his thumb and forefinger. “Something about the size of a coin.”
“Mmm,” I crooned. “Definitely possible.” My gaze became hazy and my nipples hardened just from his proximity, let alone the welcome campaign my girl parts staged observing what his fingers could do to that quarter. I needed to focus before he got me to agree to something under covers. “Does Mansfield know about this?” My chain of command didn’t include orders from Jayce Jackson, much to his frustration.
“Yes. He’ll tell you about it at the meeting tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t have anything scheduled—”
My phone beeped, indicating a received text. He tilted his head and paused for me to click on the message, which I almost didn’t have to read anymore. Sure enough, Mansfield announced a meeting in the morning.
“The conference room at eight,” I muttered. “Looks like most of the prop guys are invited.”
Our group, Clandestine Operations and Properties, COP, started as a little-known group loosely tied to the CIA. Although described to Congress in a lot of different words when asking for funding, COP specialized in the espionage activities politicians would rather not talk about. COP’s super-secret assignments required, shall we say, unconventional methods, and the outside world never heard the truth about our best work. Jackson served as one of the agents in the Operations area while I was hired as an engineer and scientist in Properties. We took on the deadliest, most insane missions, and our success or failure was high stakes.
Our fearless leader, Director Mitchell Mansfield, embodied the greatest dreams and worst nightmares of national defense. His CV highlighted accomplishments from service in military special ops to a doctorate in engineering from MIT. A frequent guest expert on Capitol Hill, he served as a special liaison to the president during times of crisis and was appointed as one of four people alive who could access the codes to launch a nuclear attack. COP was his idea, and Mansfield remained close to our missions, staying in the loop on our progress. When he put the call out for a meeting, even late on a Sunday, I had no doubt all of Props would be there at eight.
Jackson, always the gentleman, conceded the upper hand. “The expert crew. I’m glad he’s calling in the best.”
“We’re the only clandestine properties branch in the CIA.”
“It just proves you’re the best. No need for any other group,” he said smoothly.
“So tell me what you need so I can start thinking about it.” I grabbed a graphing notepad and mechanical pencil from the drawer by the phone. I always had both handy to use when inspiration struck. Yeah, that was a little geeky.
He stood and came behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, and skimmed down my arms. Then he leaned in to my ear and whispered, “I did the right thing coming tonight.”
Dropping my eyes, I teased back without shame. “I didn’t know you had already started.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, unleashing his killer dimple. “Q, one day you won’t be able to resist my charms.”
I hoped he didn’t notice the drool dribbling from my mouth, because I’d struggled resisting Jayce Jackson since the first covert operation we were assigned together, but being one in a long string of conquests held no appeal for me. Now, if I could just convince the tingles in the lower half of my body of my disinterest, we’d be getting somewhere.