Exit Strategy

And she knew he’d be smiling that relaxed, confident smile that belied his dilemma. As she approached him, she again marveled that he could be so calm. And so handsome. He, too, had changed outfits in the limousine and was wearing jeans with a black turtleneck.

“Miss me?” he asked when she reached him.

“I just don’t get how you can stay so calm, Ortega.”

He took her arm and escorted her back toward her place. “I actually have an old relaxation technique—something I used to use a lot, then I slacked off. This seemed like a good time to resurrect it.”

“It’s amazing.”

“When all this is behind us, maybe I can teach it to you.”

“Thanks. I’d like that,” she murmured, surprised that he was again suggesting they’d see each other after the assignment was over. Did he see a future for them? Based on a couple of phony dates?

Phony dates that so far were admittedly better than the real thing….

“You’ll find it useful,” he assured her. “Especially if you keep working with Jane. Which I don’t recommend, by the way.”

“Why not? She’s the best, right?”

“Hardly.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close as they approached the front steps. “Ready? Showtime.”

Their second date was a lot like the first, with a heady kiss in the elevator that Miranda decided to enjoy to the hilt. To her delight, Ortega took the same approach, and by the time he hustled her out into the hall, there was an urgency that told the cameras this couple couldn’t wait to get inside the apartment. There would be no rebuffing him at the door this trip, and when she started fumbling for the keys, he commandeered them and had the door open before she could even pretend to react.

The script called for him to stay for five minutes, then leave without ceremony, looking frustrated. She had no idea what they’d actually do for those five minutes, although she knew what she wanted them to do….

But Ortega was all business the moment the door closed. “I’ll check in with Jane. You start changing for date number three. I’ll let myself out in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay.” She edged toward the bedroom, disappointed but reminding herself that this was a good sign. He was treating her like a professional. It was time she started returning the favor.

And she was glad to have the extra time to prepare for the big date—the one where they would be manhandling each other. Ortega was obviously attracted to her—either that or he really was the world’s best actor. But still, she wanted to drive him wild this time.

For the good of the mission, of course.

So she brushed her hair until it shone, then twisted it and fastened it behind her head with a rhinestone-studded butterfly clip. Now Ortega could nuzzle her without impediment, and if he wanted to be ultra-dramatic, he could pull the clip away and let her hair cascade down her back.

She was dousing herself with perfume when she heard the door open and close—or rather, slam, as the frustrated suitor left in a huff.

Laughing out loud, Miranda took a last glimpse in the mirror, then grabbed a black purse with a shoulder strap as her final accessory. She was almost giddy, and while she knew part of it was the prospect of making out with Ortega, she was mostly feeling proud. This assignment—a huge one—had gone perfectly. Ortega’s reputation would be safe and his appointment would go through without a glitch. Jane Smith would be so impressed, she’d invite Miranda to join her team permanently—

Except Ortega warned you against that, she reminded herself as she headed for the door. You’ll have to make him explain that when this is all over. Meanwhile, as he says, it’s showtime!

“How’re you holding up?” Ortega asked when she joined him on the side street.

His concerned tone surprised her, and for the first time, she wondered if she was really doing as well with this assignment as she thought she was. Then she decided he was just being a gentleman, so she smiled and assured him, “Piece of cake.”

He was wearing a strong, musky aftershave this time, and his hair was slightly damp, as though he’d been grooming it right up to the last moment.

Very convincing, she decided with admiration. He definitely seems like a guy intent on scoring tonight.

Intent on scoring, and also used to scoring. She had no doubt about that. He was more or less the sexiest man she had ever been this close to, and she figured he knew it. After all, he had worked undercover for years. Certainly in all that time he had seduced a female or two—for his country—and had probably found it surprisingly easy.

Speaking of easy, she warned herself, try not to be a total slut in the elevator. The script calls for you to enjoy him, not maul him.

Biting back a laugh, she let him rest his hand low on her back—so low it really wasn’t her back at all—as he propelled her toward her building. They flew through the doorway, clearly headed straight to bed. When the elevator didn’t come right away, Ortega began kissing her with greed and lust and several other of the very best sins.

As soon as the doors opened, he pushed her into the back corner and before the doors closed fully, he was devouring her, sliding his mouth down from her neck to her breasts, then lower and lower, until he was pushing her dress up to reveal her lace panties. Shocked, Miranda tried to think. Should she protest? Did he expect her to stop him? Was this part of the charade?

Then his teeth were tugging at the wisp of black silk, and she laced her fingers in his wavy hair. The script called for “mindless enjoyment,” and this was the very definition of the phrase.

“Ortega…” Her moan was slow and husky.

He seemed to take it as a complaint, and stood up quickly. Then he cupped her chin in his hand and murmured, “You’re just so goddammed sexy.”

The elevator opened and he whisked her down the hall, taking the keys and working the lock with one hand while holding her close with the other. Then he pushed the door open, half carried her inside, and closed it.

And then it was over.

Miranda leaned against the wall for a second, just to catch her breath. Then she straightened and gave him a smile she hoped was steady. “That went well, don’t you think?”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he murmured, “Yeah. You did well. Nice job.”

“Thanks.” She bit her lip, wondering if they were just going to stare at one another until dawn. “Would you like a drink? Or coffee? Anything like that?”

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about an hour. At some point, coffee will be good. But for the moment, you’re off duty. Do whatever you want. Sleep. Shower. Watch TV. I’ll check in with Jane, then just…well, I’ll find something to do.”

Miranda stepped up to him, concerned. His confidence, his calm, seemed to have abandoned him, and she wondered if he knew something she didn’t. Maybe they hadn’t done as good a job as she thought. She was a rookie, after all. There were subtleties she might miss that an experienced operative would note.

“What’s wrong?” she asked finally.

“Nothing. Everything’s great. I just have something I want to say.”

She flushed. “You don’t have to thank me, Ortega. It’s my job—and my privilege—to help a patriot like you.”

“You don’t understand.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t take this the wrong way?”

She winced but nodded. “I promise.”

Ortega cleared his throat, but his voice was still husky when he told her, “I thought this part of my life was over. This feeling. This amazing, out-of-control, mind-numbing buzz. My God, Miranda, I swear I thought I was past this. But tonight, with you—”

He held up one hand to stop her from interrupting. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just thanking you. For making me feel this way. So foolishly optimistic. So completely inspired. I thought this part of me was dead. But tonight…with you…it’s the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever felt.”

She stared up at him, speechless for what seemed like forever. Then she whispered, “Thank God, Ortega. I thought it was just me.”

His dark eyes widened, then a grin spread slowly over his face.

And then to her shocked delight, he scooped her up in his arms—like some sort of brawny epic hero!—and carried her into the bedroom.

Settling down at a table in the middle of a bustling coffeehouse on the edge of campus, Miranda opened her laptop and pretended to study the screen, while actually listening intently to the conversations of nearby students. She was dressed the part of a graduate student herself in her green-and-white University of Hawaii T-shirt, faded jeans and flat leather sandals.

This was a new phase of her language immersion program. Her assignment? Tracking the discussions she overheard, whether she understood them or not. This particular café was the perfect spot since it catered to international students.

After a weekend of recovering from the Ortega alibi assignment, she had been glad to find distraction in this new adventure. As expected, she hadn’t heard from Jane Smith or Ortega at all, but she had read the newspapers, so she knew that at this point at least Ortega was not considered a suspect in the killing of the president’s advisor. In fact, his agency, SPIN, was leading the investigation. And from all reports, Jane Smith had succeeded in making it appear to be a simple break-in gone wrong.

But Miranda knew better, and she took great pleasure in imagining Ortega and Smith working behind the scenes to catch the bastards who had tried to frame him. The world might never know what really happened, but justice would be done. And with any luck, Ortega would share the top secret details with her on their fourth date.

She was pretty sure there would be a fourth date. He had as much as told her so. It would make the alibi even more believable, for one thing, if they kept seeing each other. And as added incentive, there was the simple matter of the bonfire in her bedroom during that last hour together.

Yes, she was sure she’d hear from him. And maybe from Jane Smith, too, inviting her to join the team permanently. She’d jump at that chance, Ortega’s warning notwithstanding.

But for now, she needed to do a good job on this new assignment. So far, after two days of posing as a student in the coffee house, she had been able to identify most of the languages she overheard, but couldn’t distinguish any words beyond simple greetings and pleasantries.

Unimpressive, she decided with a sigh. Two weeks of training, and nothing to show for it.

Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes and sifted her fingers through her hair as though lost in thought, concentrating on the two young men seated across from her.

She couldn’t discern their nationality or language but it was clear they were arguing. Not that their voices were raised. It was more subtle than that—inflection, cadence, the use of very short words.

Maybe this is part of the deal, she told herself, leaning forward and making a note of the observation on her laptop. Maybe that’s what they’re teaching you—to pick up on those sorts of things.

“Miranda Cutler?”

She turned, surprised to hear her name, then surprised again by the sight of a man in a conservative gray suit, so out of place in this venue. Even before he flashed his badge, she knew he was FBI, and her pulse began to race.

This was it. They were going to ask about Ortega. Or better still, they weren’t here about the alibi at all, but had been directed to bring her to Ortega on some pretext. Maybe he even wanted her help on the investigation!

“Yes, I’m Miranda Cutler.” She pretended to be confused, not wanting to blow her cover completely. “Is something wrong?”

“Why don’t we step outside?” he suggested.

She hesitated, then shrugged, closed her laptop and packed it into the knapsack she had slung on the back of her chair.

“Can’t you tell me what this is about?” she asked as she stood and stared into the man’s blue eyes, challenging him, but only slightly.

“Outside,” he repeated.

He was good at his job, she decided, making a note to practice being so completely nondescript and robotic.

She followed him without further protest, and as soon as they were outside, she murmured teasingly, “You didn’t exactly fit in, you know.”

“This way.” He strode to a black sedan parked in a no-parking zone and opened the front passenger door. “Get in.”

It was impossible to engage the gray-suited man in conversation, so Miranda finally stopped trying. Either she was going to be questioned about the alibi or she was being taken to Smith or Ortega. And luckily, she was prepared for either occurrence, so she just leaned back in her seat and forced herself to relax.

She had guessed they were headed for FBI headquarters in D.C., and was relieved when they went to Langley, Virginia, instead. This was Jane Smith territory, although she couldn’t imagine why the CIA hadn’t sent one of their own to pick her up. Apparently the two agencies were working together, but she was still surprised when the guards waved them through without bothering to glance at the IDs they both produced. Not only that, they allowed the FBI agent to proceed without any additional escort as he led Miranda to a small conference room dominated by a forty-two-inch plasma TV.

They were immediately joined by two men, one of whom identified himself as Bob Runyon, CIA. The other was FBI, and he and Miranda’s gray-suited escort faded into the background, leaving Runyon in charge.

“What’s this about?” she demanded for the umpteenth time.

“Sit down,” Runyon advised. When she had complied, he pushed a button on a remote control and a video began to play.

Miranda stared at the screen, confused. It was the alibi video, specifically Date Three, just as she and Ortega were dragging one another into the elevator.

Of all parts of that stupid tape to play, they have to pick this one? she complained to herself as she watched Ortega trail his mouth down her body, then up between her thighs. It was mortifying, but she had prepared herself for this moment, so she was able to watch without cringing.

Runyon hit the Pause button at the most humiliating moment possible, then gestured toward the image on the screen. “Care to comment?”

Indignation replaced embarrassment, and Miranda gave him a haughty glare. “How dare you invade my privacy like this. Turn that off. Immediately!”

“Can you identify the man kissing you?”

“Of course I can! It’s Ray Ortega, director of SPIN. I’ve been dating him for a while. Not that it’s any of your business.” She gulped a breath of air, then insisted, “I demand to know what this is about.”

“Drop the act, Cutler. We know all about it. Ortega confessed last night.”

Miranda drew back, suspecting a trap. “Confessed to what? Having sex in an elevator? I’ll admit it’s not our most admirable moment, but since when is it a crime? We were off duty—”

“I said, drop it.” Runyon eyed her with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. “We know he killed Payton. We know you and Smith cooked up this alibi for him. Like I said, he confessed. Take a look.” He slid a piece of paper across the table, but when Miranda reached for it, he anchored it to the table with his palm. “Look. Don’t touch.”

It was a signed declaration, and the signature was purportedly Ortega’s. Before Miranda could read more than a few sentences of the text, Runyon pulled the paper back and shoved it into a file.

But a few sentences had been more than enough for Miranda to learn the truth, and it sent a chill through her. Falsifying evidence, killing in self-defense, kidnapping—Ortega had confessed to all of these!

“The good news is, Ortega cleared you of anything but gullibility,” Runyon was saying. “He says you were just a dupe. And even if that’s not true, you’ve been pardoned—”

“What?”

“President Standish pardoned you. Pardoned Ortega, too. Jane Smith isn’t so lucky. She’ll do time for this once she gets out of the hospital. And at least two of her guys are dead. So consider yourself lucky.”

Miranda stared in dismay. “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” The CIA officer’s voice lost its edge. “It took me a while to understand it, too. Apparently Ortega killed Payton in self-defense, then Smith cooked up an alibi for him, using you—in more ways than one. Unfortunately, Smith went too far. She kidnapped an FBI agent and a SPIN employee who had figured out what was going on, and she would’ve killed them both if they hadn’t been smart enough to get away. Ortega wasn’t part of that. Once he figured out what Smith was really up to, he went after her and her crew and apprehended the ones he didn’t shoot. A real bloodbath.”

Runyon laughed darkly before adding, “President Standish decided Ortega redeemed himself at the last minute and pardoned him. Unbelievable if you ask me, but no one asked. The good news is, you got pardoned, too. Otherwise you’d be part of the conspiracy and the charges would apply to you too.”

“I don’t need a pardon,” Miranda insisted, angry and just a little desperate. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I want to make a statement. To clear myself—”

“Not necessary. Ortega cleared you—”

“By calling me a dupe? You think that clears me?”

“Settle down.” Runyon held up a hand to silence her. Then he said with quiet authority, “The only reason for this meeting is to close the loop. Unless you want to press charges against Ortega, in which case, your career is over.”

“I don’t want to press charges. But I want to make a statement. For the file. Like he did.”

“There is no file. This never happened.” He arched an eyebrow in warning. “This will be classified. Top secret. Only a handful of people will ever know about it. And like I said, it won’t affect your career. Unless you let it,” he added, his meaning clear.

Miranda’s heart sank. Her career—she had worked so hard for it. Now Jane Smith and Ortega had ruined it. Ruined her. She had no doubt about that.

Her gaze was drawn to the despicable image on the plasma screen and her gut tightened with disgust. He had seemed so attracted to her. So smitten. But it had all been an act. A way to doubly ensure her loyalty.

She was a dupe…

“Cutler?” Runyon switched off the monitor. “Are you okay?”

She glanced at him, amazed by the question. Then she asked, “You said two of Smith’s agents were dead. Was one named Mark?”

He nodded. “Friend of yours?”

“No. Just the opposite.” She bit her lip. “What about the FBI agent and the SPIN employee? Were they hurt?”

“Yeah, both sustained injuries. One or both are still in the hospital I think.” He smiled. “The spinner saved the day according to the report. Some sort of genius or something. Too bad you’ll never meet her. You owe her, big-time.”

Miranda studied her hands, wondering if he knew how stupid he sounded.

“Any other questions? We need to wrap this up.”

“I’d like to read the file.”

“Sorry. The less you know the better for you.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need counseling? We can arrange it.”

“No.”

“Good answer.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re cleared for duty. Just like it never happened. Tomorrow morning you’re going to request time off. As a reason, you’ll say you never really came to grips with your dad’s death and you need to go home for a few weeks, to grieve. Delayed reaction or whatever. It will be approved, no questions asked.”

He walked to the door and opened it, then gestured for Miranda to join him. When she had done so, he led her into the hall and closed the door behind them. “It’s over, Miranda. Try not to let it get to you. Go home. Hang out with family and friends. Get past this—that’s an order—and then come back. Your career will be waiting for you. And Miranda?”

“Yes?” she asked, barely listening to his words.

“When you get back into town, maybe we could have a drink some night after work. Just for fun.”

She blinked, sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. Then she looked into his eyes and saw interest so stark—so degrading—that she knew he was replaying the images from the alibi tape. That scene in the elevator—

Her stomach knotted violently and she shoved past him, sprinting for the ladies room at the far end of the hall. Bursting into a stall, she fell to her knees in front of a gleaming white toilet.

Just in time to vomit her guts out.

Chapter 2

One year later

“I know you’re excited about this, Goldie, but don’t get your hopes up. We don’t really know much about this girl.”

Kristie Hennessy enjoyed the tingle that always shot through her when SPIN Director Will McGregor called her Goldie. Or maybe she was just tingling because he was physically present after a full month of being three thousand miles away, fine-tuning the West Coast office in preparation for transitioning the agency from a stand-alone entity to a division of the FBI.

In the early months of establishing SPIN-West she had been there, too, working side by side with him. Sleeping side by side with him. But lately, she had been pulled away from him with increasing frequency and duration, thanks to her duties at the East Coast headquarters, where she provided creative support for FBI agents in the field by supplying them with undercover identities and profiles of suspects.

“It’s a foolproof plan,” she assured him. “We know all we need to know about Miranda Cutler by watching that videotape. Or at least, almost all we need to know.”

McGregor groaned. “You’re not really going to ask that poor kid if she and Ortega had sex that night, are you?”

“It’s the last piece of the puzzle,” Kristie insisted. “Oh, look!” She pointed at the young woman approaching the reception desk outside of McGregor’s glass-walled office.

With the blinds open, one could see everything happening in the think tank that had made SPIN famous. Of course, had the blinds been closed, Kristie could have kissed McGregor’s square jaw, just for luck.

Not that she had his attention anymore. He was openly staring at Miranda Cutler, and Kristie could hardly blame him. The CIA operative was strikingly lovely, despite her stern expression and the hard set to her shoulders. All of that was more than offset by her mane of long auburn hair that was streaked with red and gold highlights. She was wearing black slacks, black boots and a long-sleeved black knit top with a mock turtleneck. No jewelry, no purse. In fact, her only accessories were the gleaming gun holstered at her waist and the badge affixed to the holster. And that hair.

“Put your eyes back in your head, Will,” Kristie advised with a teasing smile.

“Right.” He flushed. “She just looks so…well, never mind. Let’s get this over with.”

“It’s going to work. Trust me.”

He grimaced, then moved to the door and opened it, calling out, “Agent Cutler? Come on in.”

As Miranda entered the office, a tentative smile finally appeared on her lips. “Director McGregor, I presume?”

“Thanks for coming.” He shook her hand, then motioned to Kristie. “This is Kristie Hennessy, one of our spinners.”

Kristie offered her hand to the visitor. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, Miranda. Sit down, won’t you? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Miranda followed them to the conference table in the corner of the room, but seemed hesitant to take a seat. Then she insisted with unexpected passion, “I’ve wanted to meet you—to thank you—for so long. I never thought I’d get the chance. I mean, you’re the ones, right? They never told me your names. Only that a spinner and an FBI agent apprehended Jane Smith before any innocent lives were lost.”

She grabbed Kristie’s hand again and pumped it. “You’re the spinner, right? And you!” she added in McGregor’s direction. “You were with the Bureau before you took this position. You’re the agent that apprehended Smith and her team. Right?” Her green eyes sparkled with tears. “Thank you so much for stopping that monster before she succeeded.”