Read Agent of Desire (Jessica Booker) Online
Authors: Charlie Evans
Agent of Desire (Jessica Booker)
Agent of Desire
By Charlie Evans
Copyright © 2013 Charlie Evans
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
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Cover design: Kanaxa
Edited by Kristi
na Cook
Dedication
For Jo, my sexy French army man.
Best 2 ½ weeks in the Caribbean
ever
!
Table of Contents
Desert Heat (Jessica Booker #2)
My handler is late. I’m on my third Chardonnay of the evening, waiting in the dimly lit bar of my two-star hotel. I should stay sober and keep my wits about me, but we’re supposed to blend in, and nothing says
I’m not normal
like going to a bar alone and drinking soda. Still, I may have overdone this one. I glance at the door, wishing he’d get here already so I can get this over with and go out and enjoy the rest of the night.
“
Bonjour
,” the guy next to me says in the worst American accent ever. He’s pretty hammered, holding onto the bar in an effort to stay on his stool. “
Tu as une bonne
ass,
tu sais
?” Great, he’s using his horrid first-year French to compliment my backside. Just for that I should kick his butt. I could. I’ve had superior ass-kicking training. But I don’t want to attract attention, so instead I settle for an internal eye roll, turn to face him, and smile.
He looks a year or two younger than me, maybe twenty-three. Most likely he’s just out of college, backpacking around Europe trying to find himself. He’s cute in a frat boy kind of way; his T-shirt and worn jeans are tight enough to show that he has muscles in all the right places. But I’m working tonight, no time for fun. Besides, playing with drunk boys is risky—there’s no satisfaction guarantee.
His eyes drift lazily down my body. I’m wearing a short, black, skin-tight dress that shows off my long legs, with a low neckline that calls attention to my ample cleavage. My friends back in training called it my “Yes Dress” because boys tend to say yes to me when I wear it.
“
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, çe soir
?” he says, quoting old song lyrics.
“Um, no,” I say. I can’t help laughing.
He chuckles. “Oh, thank God you speak English. Are you here with someone?” He stares at my chest, unable to hide his desire because he’s so plowed. This guy is ballsy, I’ll give him that.
My breasts are already billowing out for attention—it’s all part of the game. Still, I lean forward and cross my arms underneath my chest to give them an extra boost. It’s cruel, but I’m bored and decide to entertain myself.
“I’m waiting for someone,” I say.
“Huh.” He continues to stare at my cleavage with his mouth open. “You’ve been waiting here a long time. Are you sure
he’s coming?”
He’s right. I‘ve been here for an hour and a half. It shouldn’t take this long.
I scan the bar. A homeless woman moves from table to table, peddling roses likely rescued from a dumpster behind a flower shop. My handler is supposed to come to me with a flower. That’s how I’ll identify them. I find myself hoping the woman selling flowers is my handler. Maybe one of those roses is for me.
“I said, are you sure
he’s coming?” Drunk guy moves closer, his bare arm brushing against mine, giving me goosebumps. His arm is warm. It’s nice.
“I’m sure
he’s just held up,” I say.
“Hey, he’s crazy for keeping you waiting. Tell you what. I’ll give you my number and you can call me when you find out he’s not coming. We’ll have a good time.” He leans back to reach into his pocket. I can’t help but notice the bulge in his pants. It affects me more than it should. I guess it’s been a while, and the wine isn’t helping. I redirect my gaze to his face,
which is set in a drunken grin. He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbles his number.
I may not have time for extracurricular activities right now, but I fold up the paper and put it in my purse for later.
As he gets up he manages to kick over his stool, and has to grab onto me to regain his balance. “Sorry. Sorry. Why anyone would keep you waiting is beyond me.” He staggers off across the bar.
I turn back to my wine and take another sip. This
is only my second assignment for the CIA, but I’m already over the whole international-woman-of-mystery thing. My first assignment had me collecting information on the Irish government for a year, which ultimately meant eavesdropping on the prime minister and his deputy who brought me little to no action. It was the equivalent of a desk job. That’s not to say I didn’t take my job seriously, but it was nothing like the spy films with exotic locations, heart-stopping danger, and smokin’ agents with telling scars. Those assignments exist, sure, but they’re given to senior agents. I’m only twenty-five, and to the CIA that means green and inept. So, I’m forced to keep myself entertained. Which I do. Because all work and no play …. But all the romantic rendezvous I have are off the clock.
I finish off my glass of wine and order another. It’s a good thing my room is upstairs, because I won’t be driving anywhere tonight.
“Hi, Lori,” a man says, using my new cover name as he approaches the bar. My heart quickens when I recognize the low, raspy voice.
“Sims.” His real name jumps out of my mouth before I can stop it. He was one of my instructors during training. Sims is in his mid-thirties. Courtesy of his job as a hand-to-hand instructor, he has an amazing body. Six-foot-three of pure muscle
, combined with short dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, and cool blue eyes. He was definitely the “hot teacher” at training camp.
I had no idea he was in the field now—and apparently my new handler. I sit up straight and throw my shoulders back, hoping I’m giving him the impression that I’m in control.
“I got held up,” he says.
He wa
ves over the bartender, and while he orders himself a shot of bourbon, I notice the white calla lily in his hand.
He moves in close. “Don’t be so obvious, Jessica,” he says under his breath, calling me by my real name. “I knew they shouldn’t have sent me someone so new. You’re not ready for this kind of job.”
I tear my eyes away from the flower. He’s right—all my actions scream newbie. First announcing his real name for the whole bar to hear, and now ogling the lily like it was a flipping diamond. I need to reel myself in. I let his comment roll off the way an experienced agent would, and turn to him, smiling. “Nice to see you.”
His expression eases. “
Enchanté
.” We lean in and kiss once on each cheek like proper Parisians. His five-o’clock shadow scratches my face. “You look lovely.” His eyes glide over my body—not in the sloppy way the drunken kid’s did. Agent Sims’s eyes hunger over my tight dress and flow down my hips to my legs, finally resting on my six-inch heels. Keeping fit so that I can both attract men and fight them is my job. I’ve got it, and sometimes I like to flaunt it. Now that Agent Sims is here, I’m glad I wore the Yes Dress. It’s normal for an agent and their handler to have some contact over the course of the job. The type of contact—and how much—is a gray area.
An area I’d like to explore.
I glance at the flower. “Is that for me?”
“It is.” He clears his throat and hands me the lily.
I bring it up to my nose to smell it. The elegant white bloom with its single swirling petal makes me think it will smell like expensive perfume, but it’s odorless. There’s a small card tied to the stem with a black ribbon. It looks like one of those standard flower shop cards. The front has a crimson heart in a silver frame. I don’t look at the back, but I know there will be a string of numbers and letters, looking like a product number. They are the key to my mission, the code that will unlock the detail files waiting for me in my laptop upstairs.
I open the card. Inside in neat cursive is written
,
You complete me.
“Aw.” I smile at Agent Sims and wink. He looks like he might be blushing, but the lighting in the bar is too dim to tell for sure.
The bartender comes back with his drink.
“You look all grown up.” Sims takes a sip of his bourbon without breaking eye contact, and I can’t help but feel like he’s drinking me.
My body tingles, and I calculate the distance to my room, just three flights up. “I wasn’t that young when we met,” I remind him. I was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed to date his students back then. Though it wouldn’t have mattered if he could. I was just one in a class of twenty female agents. All of us flirted with him. He could have had his pick.
“Things are different now.” He rests his arm on the back of my barstool and I get a flash of heat. I ease back into his arm just a little to let him know I like where he’s going, but I can’t seem to make any more progress with him. As we sit chatting about the weather in Paris, I try touching his shoulder, touching his leg. I even do the “accidental” breast contact, turning suddenly and letting my chest brush against his arm. He glances down briefly, but doesn’t make a move, and the only one I’m turning on is myself. He sits with me making small talk as he finishes his drink in record time, and gets up to leave.
“What’s your rush?” I ask.
“I’ve got somewhere I need to be. It was great to see you.” We exchange pecks on the cheek again.
How very French.
He leaves too soon. I still have a half a glass of chardonnay. I down it. Looks like I can’t call this my Yes Dress anymore.
“
Mademoiselle
.” The bartender eyes my empty glass, waiting to see if I’ll take another.
“
Non. Merci
.” I get up, glancing at the white lily that rests on the bar. A year of pushing paper in Paris. This is what I trained for. There should at least be some good shopping here. Maybe I need a new dress.
“Hey
, beautiful.” It’s the drunk American. He is swaying on his feet. “Where’d your date go?”
I pick up the flower. “We’re going to reschedule.”
He sees the lily in my hand and looks down at the floor. “Oh, well. I’ll give you this anyway because I got it for you.” He hands me a red rose. The petals are wilted, and the leaves are brown and frayed. The head of the flower is bent down. It’s the saddest flower anyone has ever given me, but I’m still touched.