Cinderella's Secret Agent. Ingrid Weaver
Del took the bouquet, running his fingertips over the stems until he felt the small plastic rectangle that was concealed there. He headed down the stairs to the subway, slipping the microcassette tape out of the flowers and into his pocket. He would have to wait until he met his partner, Bill Grimes, at the surveillance site before he could listen to the briefing on this tape. Like all the SPEAR briefing cassettes, it would erase as it played.
He was pulling the graveyard shift with Bill tonight. Del wasn’t being given any consideration for his burns and bruises, and he wasn’t asking for any. At this stage of the chase, every available operative was needed to insure Simon didn’t slip away again.
The subway train squealed to a halt at Del’s stop, jarring his swollen knee. He ignored the discomfort and blended into the crowd that spilled onto the street. He walked a block east, crossed Third Avenue, then paused in front of a shoe store, using the reflection in the glass to check out the passersby. Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he glanced at the daffodils he still held. His lips quirked as he remembered the flower vendor’s comment.
Being holed up in an apartment all night with Bill, staring through a sniper’s scope, wasn’t Del’s idea of a hot date. And he was certain Bill wouldn’t appreciate the flowers.
But Del knew someone who would. He lifted his head, his gaze going to the coffee shop on the other side of the street. Maggie was the kind of woman who would love flowers. She would be thrilled to get these daffodils. He could picture how she would smile and stick them in a sundae glass and chatter about how yellow is such a happy color….
No. A bouquet of flowers could carry a message in more than one way. And Del couldn’t afford to give any woman the wrong message, especially a woman like Maggie. She deserved better than that. Life hadn’t dealt her a good hand, yet she was making the best of it, facing her problems with a good-natured determination that he had to admire.
If things had been different, if he had known her eight years ago, he might have considered giving her more than just a bouquet.
Del wavered for an instant, then tossed the daffodils into a trash can and crossed the street.
“Hey, Maggie. Your cowboy’s here again.”
Maggie Rice stood on her toes to peer through the round window in the swinging door. From here she had a good view of the coffee shop and the patron who had just sat down. Although his back was toward her, she recognized him instantly, doubtless due to the sudden thump of her pulse.
Clearing her throat, Maggie smoothed her apron over the front of her maternity dress. “Wrong on both counts, Joanne,” she said. “He’s not mine, and he’s no cowboy. Do you see boots or a Stetson anywhere? And have you ever heard even a trace of a drawl?”
“Guys like that don’t need the props.” Joanne Herbert chewed her bubble gum noisily, blew a bubble and popped it against the roof of her mouth. “The cowboy thing is part of his aura.”
Maggie knew exactly what Joanne meant. Of average height and average build, in his neatly pressed khakis and his polo shirt, Del sure didn’t resemble the Marlboro Man. Yet there was something so essentially, well, male about him. He moved with the easy self-confidence of a lone wolf, his body loose, his gaze always alert, as if he were some legendary gunslinger, scanning the horizon for his next target.
Oh, Lord. The pregnancy must be affecting her brain. Del? A gunslinger? He was a nice guy, probably one of the last ones left in New York.
“And he is, too, yours,” Joanne went on.
“Oh, get real,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “No man’s going to give me a second glance, even if I was interested. Which I’m not. Alan cured me of that. And right now it would be absolutely ludicrous to even think about—”
“Why, Maggie, I meant he’s your customer, that’s all. He’s sitting at your table, isn’t he? What on earth did you think I meant?” Joanne chuckled. “But come to think of it, it is kind of a karmic coincidence that he always manages to show up on your shifts.”
Maggie groaned. “Don’t you have a mantra to chant or some coffee to spill?”
“Nah, I already did that. But now that you reminded me, I do have some buns to burn.” Joanne pressed her cheek alongside Maggie’s to look through the window. “Mmm, speaking of great buns…”
Maggie bumped her friend with her hip. “Joanne, behave yourself. If you keep drooling like that I’ll have to get out the mop. Wet floors can be hazardous.”
“He looks…hungry.”
“Well, duh. Why else would he be here?”
“Besides drumming up business for us by making everyone’s mouth water?”
“If you like him so much, why don’t you serve him?”
“He’s sitting at your table,” Joanne said smugly. “Besides, I know for a fact it would hurt Laszlo’s feelings if I ran off to a rodeo with Mel here.”
“His name’s Del, not Mel,” Maggie said.
“With those looks, anyone could get confused.”
No, Joanne was wrong, Maggie thought. Del’s looks couldn’t be confused with anyone else’s. With his hawklike nose and his striking amber eyes, he was a one of a kind. He wasn’t handsome in a classic movie star or magazine model sort of way, but he was…appealing. Yes, that was a good word for it. Yet unlike most attractive men, he seemed oblivious to his appearance. As a matter of fact, his short-clipped hair and casual, nondescript clothes weren’t meant to draw attention.
But he drew hers. Oh, yes. No matter what shape the rest of her was in, her eyes were functioning just fine. She felt a blush rising in her cheeks and sighed. Was this what she had been reduced to? Lurking behind a door in order to ogle a customer?
He was most likely married anyway. She seemed to have a knack for finding the ones who were married. But it didn’t make any difference. Considering her condition, ogling anyone was worse than ludicrous, it was downright gross.
“Uh, Maggie?”
“Mmm?”
Joanne squeaked a fingertip across the round windowpane in the door. “You better get to work, girl. You’re fogging up the glass.”
Maggie sputtered and turned to make a retort, but Joanne was quicker. Grabbing Maggie by the shoulders, she gave her a gentle shove. The door swung open and Maggie stumbled into the coffee shop with all the grace of an elephant in a tutu.
Laszlo looked up from the grill, his broad forehead creasing in a frown. “Maggie, you okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.” She made an exaggerated show of grabbing the edge of the lunch counter for balance, then grinned. “It’s no wonder I keep tripping over my feet. I haven’t seen them for months so sometimes I forget they’re there.”
He shook his head as he gestured with his spatula. “You shouldn’t be working,” he growled in his thick Hungarian accent. “You should be home.”
“What? And give up all this? I plan to put the baby through college on the tips I’ve been getting lately.”
The ends of Laszlo’s drooping mustache dipped farther. “You’re the stubborn woman, Maggie Rice. Five days, that is all. Then I don’t want to see more of you until after the kid is born.”
“More? Now there’s a scary thought. Any more of me and I won’t fit through the front door anyway.” Maggie gave him a cheeky wink and picked up her order pad.
Five days, and then she would stay home. In spite of what she’d just told her boss, she was looking forward to the time off. As much as she needed the money this job brought, she had a million things still to do to get the apartment ready and less than a month to go.
“Hello, Maggie. How are you and Junior today?”
She pulled her