Nobody Does It Better. JENNIFER LABRECQUE
woman in the window seat next to her asked, a note of sympathy in the question.
“Just a little,” Holly said. She dug into her backpack and pulled out the inflatable pillow and a small travel blanket. “I’ve never flown before.”
“You picked a long flight for a first timer.”
Holly grinned. “Only because the boat takes too long to get from Atlanta to Venice.” There was a kernel of truth in her humor. Three quick breaths and the neck pillow was done. She fumbled with the plug for a second, but then got it.
“If you don’t mind me asking, I have to know what or who is so important in Venice that you’re willing to take such a long first trip?” The woman chuckled. “Sorry. Don’t answer that if it’s too personal. I’m a writer and I always want to know stuff. My husband says I’m nosy. I consider it research.”
“A writer? No kidding?” Wow. “What do you write?”
“I’m Martina Larson. Call me Marty. I write romance novels.”
Holly read her fair share of romance novels. Who in the world didn’t love a happy ending? The woman’s name was vaguely familiar. “I think I’ve read a couple of your books before. They’re very…sensual.” If they were the ones she thought they were, they were quite spicy. Just the kind of sex she wished she was having. But not trusting herself in a relationship also translated to not trusting herself to indulge in some of her more explicit fantasies.
Marty laughed. “My books go way beyond sensual. I’m on my way to a writers’ retreat with a couple of friends. We’ll be staying in a sixteenth-century castle a few hours north of London.” She paused. “You never said why you’re going to Venice.”
“I’ve heard it’s beautiful.” And that was true.
“It is. And it shouldn’t be too crowded at this time of year, at least not as crowded as in the summer. Short of going to the Venetian in Vegas, there’s no mistaking Venice for anywhere else. My husband and I spent a couple of days there several years ago.”
Had Marty abandoned her family, left behind a husband and two children, and stayed in Venice? Had she gone on a business trip and then virtually dropped off the face of the earth? No birthday cards, no Christmas cards, no appearance at high school or college graduation, no contact for twenty-seven years. Holly’s wild guess was probably not.
“I want to see it for myself,” she said.
“Are you meeting a friend there?”
“No. I’m going solo. But I have arranged for a tour guide, since I have an abysmal sense of direction.” This was her mission, her quest, her confrontation. She wanted a firsthand reckoning with the woman who’d birthed her and then abandoned her.
She thought she’d put it behind her, the Mother’s Day Tea in kindergarten when the teaching assistant had sat with her because she’d been alone. Being thirteen and having to get up the nerve to approach her father and tell him she needed sanitary napkins. Unlike her friends, she didn’t have a mother to prepare her. She’d told herself she couldn’t miss what she’d never known. And since Julia, as Holly mentally referred to her, had skipped town when Holly was three, she had no recollection of a time when she’d had a mother.
But that wasn’t exactly true. Deep inside, for as long as she could remember, she’d been waiting—nurturing a secret hope that one day the phone would ring, a letter would arrive in the mail, that Julia would show up on her doorstep. Her father had finally started to date last year and remarried this year. And Holly had figured it out. Dumping Greg was base camp. Finding Julia was Everest.
“You’ll love it,” Marty said.
“I think it’ll change my life.”
Marty eyed her with a mix of speculation and curiosity, as if she knew there was more to the story than Holly was telling. But they were interrupted when the flight attendant announced the upcoming in-flight movie, a romantic comedy.
“Oh, I’ve been dying to see this. I missed it at the movies,” Marty said.
After all the anticipation and anxiety—and probably the wine—exhaustion overwhelmed Holly. She settled the pillow around her neck and unfolded the blanket, tucking it over her shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap. If it looks like we’re going to crash, please don’t wake me.”
She closed her eyes and tried to relax beneath the blanket. She was only partially kidding.
“WE SPOTTED HER ENTERING London under the name Holly Smith.” Gage Carswell leaned forward for a better look at the blurry photo enlarged from the airport-security camera as Mason continued his briefing. “She’s catching a connector to Venice. We’ll delay the flight out of London, which should give you ample time to get in place. We ran her schedule. She’s booked a room off of San Marco for a week. You’re going to be in the room next door. She’s arranged for a private tour guide, requesting an off-the-beaten-path experience. Your cover will be as that guide. Monitor her twenty-four/seven. We want to know where she goes, whom she sees, what she does. We need contact information. Names. Numbers.” Mason shrugged. “Set a honey trap.”
Ten years in the spook business and Gage still found all of the spy lingo amusing. Why the hell didn’t his handler just say don’t kill her, seduce her. He was not, however, amused at being tagged for a honey-trap assignment. Bloody bother, that. He didn’t mask his annoyance.
Mason’s clipped chuckle lacked any warmth. Sadistic bastard. “I know the seduction routine isn’t your preferred MO, but Eros is currently undercover.”
The legendary agent Eros who had never met a woman he couldn’t seduce to get what—or whom—he wanted. Kazbekistan? Poor sot. At least the food would be better in Venice.
Gage settled back in his chair in the windowless office. Paranoia and caution went with the job of managing covert operations, but it would drive Gage nutters to spend every day in this box, even if it was in London. However, windows meant the other side could use a telephoto lens or other high-tech methods of gleaning information on a desk or computer screen that didn’t want gleaning. Give him his field-operative position any day.
He glanced again at the photo of the woman Mason had included in his briefing papers. The Gorgon, aka Holly Smith. Five foot six. Weight listed at one-forty, but Gage figured that contained a fifteen-pound lie. Women couldn’t resist shaving down the number. Chin-length brown hair, and startling aquamarine eyes in an otherwise average face. From what he ascertained from the photo, she wasn’t a beauty, but she wouldn’t set small children off screaming, either.
“Why would she book a tour?” Gage asked. It didn’t make sense.
“As a cover?” Mason shrugged. “To be unpredictable? Because she’s a bloody female?”
Not for the first time, Gage thought Mason was something of a misogynist, but that wasn’t his problem. “There’s a tour itinerary?”
Mason flicked his wrist toward the file. “It’s in there, as dictated by the client.”
“It’s a private tour group? Isn’t there an office?”
“No. Your Way Tours is an Internet operation touted as being more low-key and personalized than trolling along with the blue-hairs. Consider it your lucky day that you won’t have to wear a natty polyester suit coat, too.”
“You’re sure she’s the one?” Gage ran a finger along the edge of the photo. He’d heard of the woman code-named the Gorgon. Dealing in black-market uranium, she’d proven to be an elusive target for years. But they’d been getting closer and closer. It was only a matter of time. One slipup, and they’d have her.
Mason steepled his fingers and regarded Gage across the expanse of desktop separating them, his pale green eyes cold despite his smile. “Holly Smith is either an alias or a stolen identity.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s her.” Mason