OOPS! I'M A SECRET AGENT (Romance) (2 page)

I blame the whole fiasco on Rupert.
Yes, it was definitely his fault that I was sitting in the heart of
the
department
in London waiting to see if I’d made the cut and been
shortlisted for the job. Not just any job. This was a secret agent’s job.
Whatever that was. Come on, we’ve all seen the movie version of what spies do —
all grit, glamour and fast–action camera angles. But what do they
really
do? This was my second interview and I was still none the wiser. I’d have made
more of an effort if I’d thought I was a serious contender, but I didn’t think
I had a chance.

I’m a serial job loser. I’ve been made redundant from more
jobs than I can remember. Truly. My CV has lots of gaps because even I can’t
keep up with the trail of employment debris. ‘Jenny the Jinx’, that’s what
Rupert calls me, even though my name is Neve. He feels sorry for anyone who
gives me a job because within a year their business has flushed itself down the
loo — and me with it. I’ve always been adamant that it’s not my fault. But
weighed down with guilt, yet again, I’d told Rupert I was going to become
self–employed. I mistakenly thought I had a knack for art and design. I was
going to create funky t–shirts and sell them online. Demand would quadruple. I
was sure of it. So sure, I invested the last thousand pounds I had to my name
buying a hot–press printer and t–shirts in every colour imaginable.

When I lost every penny of my investment in record time he’d
snorted and sneered as I looked through the job pages in the newspaper while we
ate a very economical beans on toast dinner. He’d insisted we had to budget.
His salary was great, but he was protecting it so we could keep up the payments
on the mortgage of our home. Actually it was my home but he’d moved in three
years ago and it just seemed like he owned it.

Anyway, there was an advertisement in the paper for people
to work for
the department,
vaguely described as part of British
Intelligence. Secret stuff. It hardly seemed genuine. I mean, it was secretive.
Would they really stick an advert in the newspaper for everyone to read? It was
situated between a vacancy for a poodle parlour assistant and a barperson with
a sparkling personality. But it was real. I said to Rupert that I’d like to
give it a go (the secret department stuff, not the poodle parlour or sparkly
barperson).

He almost choked on his toast, and the sneer he gave me
became the impetus for what happened.

So that’s basically why it’s Rupert’s fault. If he’d laughed
lightly, gave a little grin, or perhaps humoured me that I could have a go at
this type of work then I’d never have bothered applying. However, I emailed my
patchwork CV. I didn’t even have to write a letter, which added to the spur of
the moment madness. And get this — they had a website. How can that be? That’s
not very secretive, is it?

Rupert continued to smirk whenever I checked my email in the
wildest hope that they’d replied. I’d set myself a target. All I needed was a
message, an acknowledgment that some secret agent had read my application and
turned it down personally. Then I’d show Rupert that I’d got a message from the
department’s headquarters in London. I never dreamed they would though. Never
ever…

But life is full of surprises. They replied the following
day and invited me to come in for an interview. I nearly chickened out. Then
Rupert came to bolster my determination yet again with a look of sheer
indignation. He thought they’d obviously mixed me up with someone else. I only
went to the interview to…I hate to admit this, but I really only went there so
I could thumb my nose at Rupert and say — see, I met them, and had tea and biscuits
and they were very nice.

Which weirdly turned out to be what happened. They didn’t
even ask me lots of prying questions. We chatted informally. Then they asked me
to come back for a second interview. So I went. Several other hopefuls were
waiting in the long, polished corridor that looked just like you see in the
movies. I was the only woman. None of us spoke or acknowledged each other. I
found that very strange and was tempted to get up and say something to lighten
the mood, but I could see from their frowns, lack of laughter lines around the
eyes and steely–set jaws that any silly behaviour would ensure I’d be thrown
out of the building.

As I sat there waiting to hear who had effectively won the
star prize, trying not to giggle at how bizarre the situation was, I heard
voices coming from the vent beside my chair. I was sitting apart from the
others, and the voices were so faint that I had to strain to eavesdrop. But
I’ve got good hearing. Excellent in fact.

‘I think we can narrow it down to these three,’ said a man
who had a very snippy voice.

‘I can narrow it to two,’ said another man.

‘Apart from that one there, their qualifications are
excellent,’ said the first man.

A third man with a lusciously sexy voice disagreed. ‘They’re
over qualified for the job. They’ll become malcontent and end up moving on. We
need someone who’ll be happy with what we have to offer.’

The others seemed to agree.

‘It’ll be far easier to train this one,’ Mr sexy voice
added. ‘A clean slate.’

I heard him stab his finger on the desk, presumably pointing
to the applicant’s photograph. My photo was awful. I’d opened my mouth to ask
if I should smile or not and they’d clicked the picture. I looked like I was
pouting like a diva but without the stunning features to back it up. Not that
I’m ugly. I’m pretty okay with a bit of effort. However I made a mental note
not to pull my silky brown hair back into a chignon when I looked so pale, and
if I wanted my blue eyes to look better I needed a second coat of mascara. And
a slick of lip gloss wouldn’t have gone amiss. I’d worn a black suit and opted
for a businesslike look though inside I was more of a high street fashion
chick.

There was some mumbling and a lot of humming and hawing, and
then they all seemed to agree on one candidate.

‘This would be my choice,’ the snippy voice said firmly.
‘What do you think, Alexavier?’

Alexavier? I’d read on the information sheet that he was the
head guy of this particular department. His decision would be final. Apparently
only those who passed muster got to meet him, so I’d yet to make his
acquaintance. I glanced at the men who were waiting to see if they’d been
selected, and was trying to guess which one they were talking about. Probably
the studious looking chap in the brown suit. He didn’t look like a malcontent
to me. The others were rather too sophisticated with qualifications up to their
ears if their bulging portfolios were anything to go by. Mr Brown Suit had his
resume stuffed in his jacket pocket. Yep, he was my bet.

Alexavier mumbled something. I couldn’t make out what it
was. I was too busy mentally matching the sexy voice to the man who was the
head of the department. He wasn’t the head of the whole thing, just this niche.
Then he said, ‘This is the one for me.’

‘Why would you choose this one, Alexavier?’ one of them
asked.

‘Because she’s completely forgettable,’ said Alexavier. ‘No
one will remember her and that’s exactly what we need.’

She? Her? Oh jeez! It couldn’t possibly be me.

‘Look at her interests,’ said Alexavier. ‘Reading, she says
she enjoys reading everything. Word search puzzles and timing herself to see
how fast she can finish them. Keeping fit by dancing around her living room
every day to fitness DVDs and by shopping.’

‘She keeps fit by shopping?’ one of them said. I heard the diss
in his tone.

‘The mind boggles,’ said Alexavier. ‘But she passed the
fitness tests. She’s extremely fit and outdid all the men.’

So that’s why they’d put me on the treadmill for half an
hour and told me to go for gold.

‘I must give up the gym and trying shopping,’ one of them
joked.

A light laughter rippled through to me.

‘Basically she’s a bookworm with an analytical mind. She
wouldn’t be bored by all the documents and research data she’d have to read
through, and she’s pretty damn fit if she was to be used out in the field,’
Alexavier summarised.

The field? What field? No one mentioned the countryside to
me.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ snippy voice agreed.

‘She’d be ideal for deskbound duties,’ said Alexavier. ‘And
fieldwork.’

The door to the interview office clicked open and two men
came out. One of them spoke.

‘Thank you for waiting. We’ve made our decision.’ He turned
to me. ‘Neve, congratulations.’

There was a low rumbling of seats as the male applicants got
the message and started to leave. The looks they gave me could’ve curdled
jelly.

My stomach did a triple somersault.

The man nodded to me and held the office door open.

I picked up my bag and walked towards the office.

This was crazy. Crazy brilliant. Then I remembered the
reason I’d been chosen. I was completely forgettable. There had to be a
compliment in there somewhere. I was still searching for it when the tall, dark
and heartbreakingly handsome figure of Alexavier shook my hand and welcomed me
to the department.

Rupert didn’t take the news well. When
I told him I started a week on Monday, he packed his bags and was gone by
Tuesday. That was the last I saw of him. Apparently his ego was dented beyond
repair. I was left with the feeling that I’d had a narrow escape. Rupert wasn’t
the man I thought he was. Rupert was a weasel. In fact, when he did that
snorting, disapproving thing with his nose, he looked like one too. I was also
left with the full brunt of the mortgage to pay.

I sat on the sofa and pondered my options. I’d never really
had any true intention of working for the secret people. My silliness had gone
too far. But I did need a job. I didn’t have any money left in the bank.
Working as a poodle parlour assistant wasn’t an option. And as for the sparkly
barperson…well, I’d tried bar work once. Only once. I couldn’t mix the
cocktails, I messed up the money and unintentionally insulted two customers.
The boss told me I should never come back. I never did.

In my hands I had the contract for the department’s work.
The money was tempting and I got the use of a car. I’d have been mad to say no,
sorry, I was just kidding, and somehow run after Rupert and tell him I’d
rattled back down the loser’s ladder to a rung he felt comfortable with.

Working as a secret agent? I would have a go at that. They
were promising to train me, teach me everything I needed to know.

So that was it. Somehow I’d become a secret agent by
default, by accident. Oops! I’m a secret agent. I was now officially employed
by
the department
. Jenny the Jinx was on her way.

‘You’ll spend most of your time
working in the burrows,’ my mentor, as they described him, informed me when I
started working for them. His name was Jenkins.

The offices were set deep below the streets of London, in the heart of the city, out of sight of everyone and yet right under their noses.
One of the most secretive departments wasn’t hidden in some fenced off secure
compound or disguised as an ordinary business on the outskirts of the city. No,
they’d cleverly situated it in the main hub of everything, thereby making it
blend into the cityscape. It was every building, no building, indefinable,
where it began, what windows belonged to it, what offices it occupied was
anyone’s guess. That’s if they even knew it existed, which few did. Only those
who entered its unobtrusive entrance, a single door, plainly painted without
embellishment, knew what a labyrinth of intrigue and intelligence thrived
inside its bland exterior. Very clever, I thought, but of course they were.

When I say,
they
, I refer to the several men whose
acquaintance I was privy to. This included Alexavier. I hadn’t met him since
our initial chat when they’d welcomed me to the department. But his
handsomeness was burned into my psyche. And I’d seen photographs of him in my
induction files. He was a stunning looking man. Well over six feet tall, as
were most of them. I’m a petite five–four. His hair was light brown, straight,
beautifully cut with sexy strands that emphasised his incredible blue eyes.
Aqua blue, long dark lashes, and brows that swept up slightly and seemed to
draw the line of his cheekbones with them. His jaw was strong but refined. He
looked like money, with pale skin that I pictured would turn to sand gold if it
saw a bit of sun. His hair certainly looked like it had lightened in the sun.
Touches of blond were streaked through the brown. It was winter now, late
November, and soon he’d have the blond trimmed out, the last remnants of a
long, warm summer swept away.

You can tell that I was totally taken by Alexavier’s looks.
And that was his face. His physique made an equal impact. He’d worn a suit,
even more beautifully cut than his hair. Bespoke tailored no doubt. Charcoal
grey, white shirt, silk tie. But I noticed an air of fitness and strength about
him. His suit covered his broad shoulders and his shirt was smooth against a
flat stomach. He looked like he could run like the wind, probably with the
strength and stamina to carry me over his shoulder at the same time.