Vision Impossible (8 page)

I squeezed his knee. “Bingo.”

Dutch’s fingers moved to the middle of my back. I wasn’t sure if he knew it yet, but he was definitely going to get lucky here in about three minutes.

“Who’re you more attracted to?” he asked.

“Daniel Craig.”

Dutch’s soft laughter echoed off the wall. “Smart-ass.”

“You walked right into that one, cowboy.”

“Okay, okay,” he conceded. “So, James Bond aside, between me and Des Vries, who’re you more attracted to?”

My radar pinged with a little warning. I’d just been asked a seriously loaded question and I was in danger of totally ruining the mood—not to mention a good massage. I turned to look at him over my shoulder, so glad I could once again stare into those midnight blues now that he’d removed the colored contacts. “Dutch Rivers, you are the sexiest man I have ever—and I do mean
ever
—seen, met, or heard of. You are manly beyond all imagination and you clearly rock my world both day and night.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed. “Des Vries,” he snorted. “I knew it.”

“Are we really going to have this argument?”

“Is it the goatee?”

I sighed and leaned my head on his chest. “Yes, Dutch, it’s the goatee. Happy?”

“It itches a little,” he admitted, scratching his chin.

“Wanna see if it tickles too?” I cocked my head to look at him playfully.

His eyebrows shot up. “What’d you have in mind?”

I smiled wickedly. “Why don’t you and I have a little fun role-playing ? You can be the secret service agent, and I can be the Russian spy.”

Dutch grinned. “Why, Svetlana, it’s so lovely to meet you. Have you been in D.C. for long?”

“Oh,
nyet
, Agent Beefcakes, I am here for conference on being good vooman for mail-order brides.”

As for the rest of that bubble bath? Well, let’s just say there wasn’t a whole lotta water left in the tub once Svetlana was finally carried off to bed.

 

 

T
he next day we arrived in Toronto on a commercial jetliner, which taxied to the hangar in the pouring rain. Dutch was decked out in another of those charcoal suits with a dark gray shirt and a metallic silver tie.

I was dressed in my new “uniform”: a low-cut cashmere cream sweater that fit like a second skin, black leggings, and thigh-high boots. Also, “the ladies” had been pushed up, pushed out, and crowded with foam to enhance their voluptuousness. They were now protesting mightily. I couldn’t wait to get to the condo and take off my bra. I also couldn’t wait to take off my blond wig, which kept getting in my eyes and itched something fierce.

My engagement ring had been stuffed into the bottom of my purse, and my left ring finger felt naked without it.

I stuck close to Dutch as we deplaned and went through customs. I flashed my new passport and a smile, but the agent was far more interested in my chest. He sent me through with barely a look at my face to confirm the photo in the passport.

I waited for Dutch, but he’d been pulled to the side. I knew he was using his fake Dutch passport, and I could see him talking calmly to the customs agents as they asked him a variety of questions. Finally, one of them made a phone call and without further delay he was allowed through.

When we were out of the customs agents’ hearing range, I asked him, “What was that about?”

“The CIA warned me that Des Vries’s name might cause some issues, but they also assured me that the Canadian government is cooperating with our investigation, as long as we keep a very low profile, that is.”

“Hence the quick release once they made the phone call.”

“Exactly.”

After getting our luggage and finding our way via cab to Des Vries’s condo, we had a little trouble with the key card the agency had provided Dutch to enter the building, but a helpful doorman came to our rescue. He took one look at Dutch and said, “Welcome home, Mr. Des Vries! I’m Daniel, your new doorman.”

Dutch nodded curtly and handed him the faulty key card. “This doesn’t work,” he snapped.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” said the doorman. He rushed behind his desk and rummaged through a drawer, coming up with two new white key cards, which he handed to Dutch. “Those will work in all entrances and exits, and will give you access to the penthouse, sir.”

Dutch snatched the key cards out of the doorman’s hand without so much as a thank-you.

I thought he was being a little rude, but then I remembered he was supposed to be an arms dealer who probably didn’t have much of a warm fuzzy side. The doorman smiled brightly, however, and said, “Will you and the lady need assistance with your bags?”

“No,” Dutch said, walking to the elevator without looking back.

I couldn’t help it; I smiled apologetically to the doorman and hurried after Dutch, but as my six-inch heels clicked along the slippery floor, I lost my footing and nearly went down. Waving my arms like a pinwheel and making a little “whoop!” sound, I managed to keep myself erect, but was thoroughly flustered by the time I reached Dutch’s side. I didn’t look at him or the doorman; instead I busied myself trying to hike up the boots so the shoes would stay on my feet a little better. While I was bent over and tugging on the leather cuff of the boot, my wig fell off.

It plopped to the ground and lay there like a big blond rat. I gasped as the cool air hit the back of my scalp, and I looked up at Dutch, who eyed first me with large round eyes, then the doorman, who just happened to see the whole thing and was staring at me also with big Wile E. Coyote barooga eyes.

“Don’t panic,” Dutch whispered as the elevator doors opened. “Just pick up the wig, tuck yourself back in, and step into the elevator.”

I could feel my cheeks heat with color and I snatched the hair off the marble floor and dove into the elevator. Mortified, I stood against the wall and stared meanly at Dutch, who inserted his key card, pressed the P for “penthouse,” and did his level best not to laugh. . . . He failed.

“Ha-ha,” I snapped, watching his shoulders shake as the laughter overtook him.

Dutch inhaled deeply and got control of himself. “Could have been worse,” he said.

“How exactly?”

“Both ladies could have popped out.”

It took me a second to understand what he was talking about, but then with a gasp I looked down and noticed that my left one had come out for air. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I cried, tugging at the bra and the cashmere sweater. “Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“I did!” he swore. “I told you to tuck yourself back in, remember?”

I growled and turned away, absolutely mortified, and that’s when I caught a glimpse of myself in the polished brass sides of the elevator. “Oh! This is no use. I look ridiculous!”

Dutch considered me carefully. “Let’s get into the condo and discuss it, okay?”

I made a face at him, but then the doors opened and we entered a lovely entryway. The minute the doors shut, I opened my mouth to argue that this disguise would likely fool no one, but before I could get a word out, I saw Dutch raise a finger to his lips and cast me a warning look.

I held perfectly still and watched him walk around the condo holding out a small device he’d dug out of his inside pocket, and all the while he was saying things like, “That dumb-ass decorator! This was
not
the look I approved!” He walked slowly and carefully around the condo, holding up the gizmo, pausing every once in a while to comment on a picture or lamp. When he was done, he eyed me carefully, and pointed to a small nook by the door where hooks were set up to hold coats. He mouthed, “Stay still” when I was in place, and then he went on a rampage, smashing all the things he’d commented on one by one in the spacious living room, the utilitarian kitchen, and what I assumed was the master bedroom.

When he was done, he looked at me with satisfaction.

I looked at him like he done lost his mind.

He grinned. “Bugs,” he said, and understanding blossomed in my mind.

“Whoa,” I said, eyeing the mess. “That’s a lot of surveillance.”

I helped Dutch sweep up the mess and, sure enough, in between the broken shards of glass and porcelain were small silver disks and bits of wire.

When we had finished cleaning up the mess, I began pulling out the pins holding up my hair and eyed the wig sitting on the arm of the sofa with meaning. “Can we talk about this disguise thing?”

Dutch sighed. “I had my doubts when they mentioned the identity they had in mind for you. I’ve been studying Des Vries for six days, and I knew you’d have trouble pulling off the dumb-bimbo thing.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

Dutch moved over to wrap me in his arms and kiss the bridge of my nose. “Definitely.”

“So what do we do?”

He stepped away and moved to his attaché. Opening it, he pulled out a thick file and flipped through some of the pages. “Des Vries has had a string of personal assistants over the years. Always the same type. A pretty young brunette fresh out of college and naive about the monster they were about to go to work for. None of his assistants ever lasted longer than a few weeks. My feeling is he got handsy and they got out, but there is room in Des Vries’s world for someone like that, and bringing you in as my assistant wouldn’t be out of character for him.”

I felt a bit of my temper flare. “Why the heck didn’t the CIA give me that cover initially?”

Dutch grimaced. “They may have thought you were a little too mature for the role.”

“That’s a nice way of saying I’m too old,” I snapped.

Dutch’s mouth quirked again. “I thought ‘mature’ might be safer.”

I sighed dramatically. “Okay, so can we call Agent Frostbite and get some clearance for this new identity?”

Lickety-split Dutch had his cell out and made the call.

It took some arguing on his part—the CIA definitely wasn’t into changing covers for me so quickly—but Dutch never let up and eventually Frost relented.

Once he’d hung up, he smiled and said, “See? Piece of cake.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, yeah.” Then I looked down at my outfit and over to my luggage and a small wave of panic hit me. “All the CIA gave me for clothes was stuff like this.”

Dutch reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracting an American Express platinum card and the spare key card Daniel had given him. He handed both to me and said, “Take the elevator down to the parking garage. There’ll be a car in slot one-A with the keys inside. I’ll draw you a map to the shopping district. Get yourself some proper business attire and anything else you think you’ll need to pull off being my personal assistant.”

“What about my background?” I asked, worried that I’d need some sort of employment history.

“Leave that to me,” he said. “I have a good friend who runs an employment agency here in Toronto. He owes me a favor. He’ll be able to give you a job history.”

I held the credit card between my fingertips and considered how much I was about to charge to it. “You gonna clear this with Frost too?”

“I am,” Dutch assured me, adding, “Tomorrow. I’ll clear it with him tomorrow. Now go shopping, dollface. And that’s an order.”

 

 

L
ater that night I completed the final touches of my new look by tying my long hair into a bun and throwing on a pair of fake prescription glasses. I twirled in front of the mirrored doors located in the spare bedroom on the opposite side of the condo, quite happy with myself, when I heard the elevator doors open. Thinking it was Dutch back early from his rummaging around at Des Vries’s office in downtown Toronto (there’d been a note on the kitchen table telling me where he’d gone), I walked out to show him how assistanty I’d become.

I stopped dead in my tracks when I discovered a tall, leggy blonde standing in the hallway, wearing skinny jeans, a tight-fitting low-cut sweater, a huge Bottega Veneta purse, and toting two large suitcases. Protruding from her mouth was a familiar white key card. Upon seeing me, she let go of the suitcase handles and pulled out the key card. “Who’re you?” she demanded, her hands finding her hips real fast.

I lifted my chin and tried to control my surprise. “Abigail Carter. I work for Mr. Des Vries,” I told her, thinking I knew exactly who she might be. Still, I thought it wise to double-check and make sure. “The better question is, who’re
you
?”

“Mandy Mortemeyer,” she told me, taking those hands off her hips to fold across her bosomy chest. “Rick’s girlfriend.”

“Ah,” I said. The stewardess who was supposed to be in Prague. My mind whirled to figure out how to compute this new twist. “I’m his personal assistant.”

The girlfriend narrowed her eyes at me. I could feel that she was about to grill me good and I was so ticked off at the CIA for not anticipating her arrival. “Rick doesn’t have a personal assistant,” she snapped.

I pointed to the new iPad lying on the table in the foyer, which I’d recently acquired. (So, yeah, the Apple Store had been right next to the clothing boutique and I figured the iPad would make me look like a real assistant, ’cause didn’t they walk around with clipboards and checklists and wasn’t the iPad just a fancy clipboard?) “Shall we send Mr. Des Vries an e-mail and ask him if I truly am his newest employee?”

Grillfriend glared at me. “Where’s he at, anyway?” she demanded. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

“He’s at his office,” I answered easily, moving to the iPad and touching the screen like I knew exactly how to use it. (Which I didn’t, but she didn’t know that!)

“Here in Toronto?” she asked, and I saw the surprise in her eyes.

“Yes,” I answered coolly. “Didn’t you know that?”

Mandy appeared flustered. She attempted to cover that by rummaging around in her purse and pulling out a plastic bag filled with what looked like wrinkled navy blue material. “Sometimes Rick gets all wrapped up in his business stuff and he’s not so good about checking in with me. I got tired of waiting for him in that smelly condo in Prague, and I was homesick. So I figured I’d come back to Canada. I mean, I knew he’d come home sooner or later, but I didn’t exactly know he was here now.” She looked up from her purse again. “Didn’t he tell you he had a girlfriend?”