Drop Dead, Gorgeous! Page 6

  And she was going into unimaginable danger with a man she’d only met yesterday. A double agent no one quite trusted, no less. A gorgeous, buff redneck whose arms were as big around as her thighs, a man with eyes like chocolate and a smile like the sun breaking through the clouds. He smelled like gunpowder and soap. It made her crazy. She blamed the good smell. No, the eyes. No, the incredible body. No, her essential weakness, spotted early on by her father and nurtured by same.

  No, the eyes.

  So, she was in a fix. But unlike poor Caitlyn, she was in a mess of her own making. She should have gone back to her nice, safe job at Mag, or her nice, safe apartment in Maplewood. She should have run the minute she realized The Boss had been shot. But no, here she was, bound (not yet literally, but soon) for the Snakepit.

  Still. Being cheerful made sense for her, at least. Unlike Caitlyn, she welcomed these changes to her life. Twenty-four hours ago she had been dateless at the biggest wedding Minneapolis had ever seen.

  Not to mention covered in frosting, with nary a man interested enough to make bold and suggestive comments. Dateless bridesmaids were their own pathetic species: at least you could usually hook up with a groomsman. But not her, The Bridesmaid Who Always Missed.

  And not at that wedding—The Boss, curiously, had no groomsmen except for Dmitri, who was very married. There hadn’t been time to flirt, much less trade phone numbers. Even the paramedics were too quick for her.

  Lame, so lame.

  At least she’d gotten out of doing the Electric Slide (she always tripped over the hem of her gown before the second verse; they should be singing, She’s a trippin’ like a moron, she’s a-stumblin’ like an epileptic. But never mind.).

  Not to mention avoiding the tiresome jostling for the thrown bouquet. Stupid superstition: she’d caught three in the last five years.

  In fact, the whole morning had been one reminder after another that she was doomed to die alone, in sweatpants, with half her face chewed off by her cats. Not that she had any. Well, she had lots of sweatpants, just no cats. But the road she was traveling, it was inevitable.

  But no longer! That was why she’d insisted on tagging along with Kevin. She’d taken advantage of The Boss’s unscrupulousness, ignored Caitlyn’s howls of protests, and tried not to glance at Kevin too often out of the corner of her eye.

  Now here she was, mistress of her own destiny…or, at least, mistress of the back of the minivan. Off to places unknown! The Snakepit! Wherever that was! Saving the world and all that good shit. Unless Kevin turned on her and shot her in the face. Not that she could imagine him doing such a thing. But she was new to the game. You never could tell. Still, it was better than cutting wedding cake at a reception.

  (You’re not smart enough for this.)

  She ignored the thought, wondering just how long the car ride would be. As his “prisoner,” she shouldn’t talk to Kevin. She couldn’t even see him, stretched out in the back like she was.

  (Go home, kid. You’ll never pull it off.)

  It had been a long day, and a longer night. She was low on sleep—and boyfriends. So she closed her eyes and dozed.

  Chapter 16

  She awoke an undefined amount of time later, completely disoriented. Why was it so dark? What was wrong with her arms?

  “What the hell?”

  She could hear the van slowing. “Sorry,” Kevin called back. “We’re getting close. I couldn’t exactly pull up to the Snakepit, then put the cuffs on, right?”

  “You blindfolded me and cuffed me in my sleep?”

  He sounded wounded. “You were sleeping so sound, I couldn’t stand to wake you up.”

  “I’m having flashbacks to Homecoming,” she muttered, wriggling. Louder, she said, “That’s pretty creepy, Kevin.”

  “I thought you’d be glad to get more sleep. I mean, it’s not like you’ll have tons of naptime surrounded by Snakepit guards.”

  She knew she was a sound sleeper, but this was ridiculous. She puffed a breath through the side of her mouth, but the blindfold didn’t budge. And he was still talking, still sounding a little hurt. The bum.

  “And if you’re getting cold feet, hon, I think this is a real good time to speak up. There’s plenty of time to turn back.”

  “I just have a mild objection to being handcuffed and blindfolded in my sleep,” she snapped. “Let’s not make it like it’s a big emotional problem I’m having, okay?”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get your Irish up.”

  “How’d you know I was Irish?” she asked suspiciously.

  “With that skin?”

  “Never mind my skin.”

  “Women.”

  “What was that?”

  “Uh, nothing.”

  “Don’t make me come up there.”

  “You got no problem going in with me, being interrogated by various bad guys, possibly getting shot at—but you’re pissed because I didn’t wake you up when I put the agreed-upon cuffs on you?”

  “I guess it’s just the reality setting in. Like a head cold. I’ll get over it.”

  “Maybe we should go back.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Well, good. ’Cuz we’re here. It’ll be just a quick walk.”

  “I’m ready to stretch my legs.”

  She heard him shut off the engine, heard the creak of the door opening and the chunk! as he slammed it closed. Heard the back door of the minivan wheeze open. He bent in and she said, “Kiss me for luck.”

  “You have to do it twice,” he said, his breath tickling her nose, “for it to be really lucky.” She felt his firm mouth on hers, had a vague thought (the Snakepit surveillance couldn’t see into the van, right? It just looked like he was leaning in to pull her out, right?) that she couldn’t quite bring to the top of her brain, kissed him back. His breath smelled like strawberry Mentos. The freshmaker!

  He kissed her a second time, a quick peck on the side of her mouth, then muttered, “Last chance.”

  “Years too late,” she replied.

  Chapter 17

  The Snakepit

  2230 hours

  “Stone, Kevin P., with prisoner in transit. Here to see Charmer.”

  Kevin was speaking into the small speaker on the wall, one hand pressed, fingers spread wide, on the wall pad. The other was gripping Jenny by her right elbow as her wrists flexed in the cuffs. Her arms were still weak from their encounter in the minivan, but she found enough strength to jerk away from him and spit. While she couldn’t see through her blindfold, she was sure there were cameras watching, and they agreed she needed to put up a bit of a show.

  He almost smiled at her performance, but resisted the impulse. This wasn’t the most dangerous part of the mission, but it was definitely in the top three.

  Was he focused? No, he was admiring the way she filled out her drab office skirt, her blouse, the way her blond hair had been piled into an efficient bun, a few honey-colored strands straggling into her face. She was probably nervous—he was nervous!—but she looked like a woman waiting for a bus.

  Four hours of sleep in the minivan. He was yanking her into harm’s way and she had snored. He couldn’t blame The Boss for his recruiting proclivities—but part of him hated the man all the same. Jenny should be—he didn’t know, knitting or something. Not cuffed and dressed like a clerk and waiting to be interrogated.

  “Welcome back, Stone,” a dulcet voice came from the speaker. “You’re cleared for entry. And…you’ve brought me a present!”

  “Yup.”

  “To make up for your abysmal fuck-up in Minneapolis.”

  “Yup.”

  “Mmmm.” There was a silence, a click, and then the giant doors at the end of the corridors slowly slid open.

  Thank you, Jesus. The Snakepit’s chief had to be dying of curiosity. The face-to-face meetings would be perilous. He had to debrief the Snakepit leadership, keep Jenny out of trouble, gather as much intel as he could, prepare whatever blow he could muster to the organizat
ion, grab her from whatever dungeon they would stick her in, and get back to O.S.I. before the shit really hit the fan.

  What was I thinking? Why didn’t I just come back alone and take my chances?

  He led Jenny to the doors, which were yawning before them like the mouth of a giant. He wanted to give her a word of comfort, but didn’t dare. He also wanted to bury his nose under the hair by her ear and lick her throat; but that was probably also a bad idea.

  Much too belatedly, he started to wonder what the hell he’d been thinking when he’d agreed to this crazy idea. Was it just to save his own ass? Was that really it? Was he that selfish?

  Or did he just admire her bravery, and want to see what she did next? His knees were almost buckling, but whether it was shame, admiration, or nerves, he had no idea.

  The Snakepit was run by Charmer, a brittle-looking brunette in her early thirties with a porcelain complexion and a narrow mouth. Her staff found her code name ironic for several reasons, but mostly because she was not in the least charming. She was dressed like an undertaker having a good year: cashmere, black, tailored.

  Also, she’d seen one too many Kill Bill movies; all her people had reptile code names. It was pretty silly, when you got right down to it. Let the flyboys have their call signs, let the grunts just get the job done. But who was going to argue with her?

  “Welcome back, Sidewinder.”

  He restrained himself from an eye-roll. “Thanks, Charmer.”

  “Do you want to explain,” Charmer continued, her right hand slipping out of sight, “why I’m not shooting you right now?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat?” he guessed.

  Her right hand stayed out of sight and she didn’t reply. Kevin got down to business. “Brought a member of the new Wagner Team from O.S.I. Her name’s Jennifer Branch. That’s all I’ve gotten out of her so far.”

  “Oh, Sidewinder. How hard did you try?”

  He shrugged with a grin. “I figured you’d want to do most of the work here. Thought you might pick her brain, find some good stuff.”

  “And let you back in my good graces.”

  “Yup.”

  “For missing the bride.”

  “Sorry. The Boss moved to adjust her veil, I think, and got right in my sights at the wrong time.”

  “At least he’s not dead,” Charmer said. “That would be awful.” She spoke with total sincerity, then reached up to Jenny’s face and pulled the blindfold down. “And you, Ms. Branch. What’s your story?”

  Jenny blinked and looked around. The bad guy’s lair looked uncomfortably like any other office she’d ever been in. Sideboard, moat-like desk, cheap carpeting, drawn cream-colored blinds, memos stuck to a corkboard behind and above Charmer’s head.

  “My story? Why give it now, when he tells me you’re going to torture me for it later anyway?”

  “Sidewinder’s been filling your head with silly ideas,” Charmer sniped, and then licked her thin, colorless lips as she stared at Jenny’s chest. “I don’t torture civilians, unless they ask nicely.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  Charmer’s lips twitched, which Kevin assumed was some sort of tic, as he’d never seen her smile.

  “So. Wagner Team. That could be useful. I’m tired of running the nanobyte race with those fascists, and losing.”

  Oh, they’re the fascists? “I don’t know why your man thought I would be valuable,” Jenny volunteered with just the right desperation in her voice. “They don’t let me see much around there. I’m just in admin, I’m not a scientist.”

  Now Charmer did smile, showing distinctly British teeth. Her Northern European accent was hard to place, though: part upper-class clipped English, with the slurs and burrs of Irish and Scots. A well-traveled woman.

  “Ah,” she was saying. “Secretaries know…everything. I’ll take a clerk over a management head any day…or one of these reptiles that work for me.”

  “Thanks, Charmer,” Kevin said dryly.

  Charmer wrapped a wiry hand over Jenny’s left shoulder. Kevin watched Jenny shift her weight—he knew how uncomfortable being cuffed behind the back could get.

  “I hope,” the brunette whispered into Jenny’s ear, “that you didn’t sign any nondisclosure agreements with your employer.”

  Jenny cleared her throat and looked down at her feet. Kevin wondered how much of this nervousness was really an act. “Um, none that I won’t break happily if you show me a dentist’s drill.”

  “Really?” Charmer laughed, delighted. “Oh, dear, it will be a shame to let you go, after we’ve pumped you for information. You’re so…accommodating.”

  Jenny looked up, a glint in her eye. “And you…keep pausing…like this.”

  Charmer dropped her hand and gave her an ugly look. “Sidewinder, take her down to the third floor…Dr. Loman will be waiting for you. Tell him to make her…comfortable, at least until I arrive.” She seemed to hear the unnatural pauses in her voice, and tried to stop. She finished rapidly. “Then come back here. Right back. I want to hear all about the last day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He jerked Jenny toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Thanks for dropping by, Ms. Branch!” Charmer called after them in a high, childish voice. “I’ll see you again once you’re settled! Bye-bye!”

  Jenny stumbled, and he couldn’t blame her. Because Charmer had sounded perfectly warm and accommodating; it was possible she thought she meant it. It was creepier than the woman’s out-and-out meanness.

  Great, Kevin chastised himself. As if I didn’t know it before, I sure as shit know it now: Charmer was either born insane, or it was a long, slow process. Either way, Jenny could be in some trouble. Is it worse that she’s nuts, or better?

  He steadied her, his fingers closing over her arm in what he hoped was an impersonal, stormtrooper-type embrace. And tried not to think of the next few hours, which were bound to be right tricky.

  For both of them.

  Chapter 18

  “Dr. Loman?” Jenny asked, being met quite courteously by a fellow who didn’t look much older than she was. “As in Willy?”

  “Not hardly, chickie.” So much for courtesy. He snorted and jerked his head, flipping a hank of dirty blond hair out of his face. He was wearing a white lab coat over a tee-shirt that read FREE KATIE AND DIE, whatever that meant. His jeans were faded, almost white at the knees, and his sneakers were so dirty it was impossible to tell what color they had been originally.

  He was about Caitlyn’s height (which meant he towered over her) but much leaner, almost bony. His horn-rimmed glasses hid dust-colored, darting eyes. In five seconds he’d looked at her boobs, her face, her neck, her boobs, her stomach, her boobs, and her eyes.

  “Sorry about keeping the cuffs on,” he said without a trace of regret in his voice. “Procedure.”

  “Uh-huh.” She looked around the small, clean sitting room. For the root of all evil, so far the Snakepit hadn’t been so bad. She wondered what Kevin was doing upstairs with Charmer.

  (You’re not s’posed to be here, but you are, so you might as well pay attention.)

  “Is this where you whip out the hot pokers?”

  He took her by the elbow and practically dragged her into the lab. Funny. When Kevin touched her like that she hadn’t minded, had even welcomed his strong fingers on her arm. When Dr. Loman did it, it was quite the opposite. It was like being touched by mean worms.

  “Hell, no!” he was chortling. “What year do you think this is? Nobody does that stuff anymore, not with all the good drugs we’ve got.”

  “I’m allergic to several barbiturates,” she informed him.

  “I guess we’ll just have to experiment then, won’t we?”

  “What a fine use of your Hippocratic oath,” she commented, and he jerked her forward so hard she stumbled onto the exam table. With rough hands he flipped her over and spread her ankles out to strap them to the table. She tried not to squirm; lying on her hands
was incredibly uncomfortable.

  “You know dick about me,” he retorted. “I’ve got bills to pay and a family to support.”

  “You and Dr. Mengele.”

  “Oh, like the O.S.I. is a bunch of choir angels?”

  “We don’t go around shooting brides, we don’t kidnap people, and we don’t—” She trailed off, because really, she had no idea what they did. Only that Caitlyn and Dmitri would never do the occasional “errand” for The Boss unless he was fundamentally good.

  “The O.S.I. is a bunch of federally funded thinkers and drinkers. At least we stand on our own two feet.”

  “Yeah, right on top of other people’s necks.”

  His mouth tightened down so far his lips actually disappeared. “Just shut up.”

  “‘Just shut up’? That’s your big comeback?”

  “I get the whole ‘brave little detainee’ thing, but it’s wasted on me.”

  “Like mouthwash?” she suggested brightly.

  He scowled. “I prefer to use drugs, but I could find a hot poker with a little effort.” He readied a needle, twisted her onto her side by her arm, and plunged the sharp into the crook of her elbow with no warning.

  “You didn’t even swab me with alcohol,” she protested.

  “Least of your problems,” he grunted, straightening.

  “This is awkward,” she said after a long silence. “What should we talk about?”

  “That’s also gonna be the least of your problems, sweetie.”

  “Did you know,” she informed him, looking up, “that the ceiling is drifting down? I mean, you’re kind of an ass and you deserve to have the ceiling squish you, but you should save yourself while you still can.”

  He ignored the ceiling, which somehow managed to keep descending without squishing anybody, and hooked her up to a few machines, letting his fingers linger as he trailed electrodes over her body. Then he was looking at her pupils with an annoying little light and listening to her heart.