Nobody Does It Better

And if the newlyweds wanted to walk now she was more than happy to go with them. She could have been deposited at her pensione canal-side, but her budget didn’t include an expensive water taxi. And on the map, it hadn’t looked like a long walk from the vaporetto stop. But she wouldn’t mind the company. While she had some neuroses, she’d never been paranoid. However, ever since she’d landed in London, she’d felt as if she was being watched.

“Sure. I’d love to walk.”

The three of them set off. Staged lights bathed some of the buildings, gilding them with gold. The streets were busy. Couples strolled by, arm in arm. Outdoor cafés hummed with conversation and music. Holly was surprised by how many people were out, but it made sense considering that Venice was a pedestrian-only city.

Mark and his bride easily kept her pace, and conversation between her and the young couple waned. They had obviously succumbed to the soft spring night in the exotically romantic setting. And judging by the looks passing between them, they were several hormones beyond sightseeing and small talk.

Holly was sure the newlyweds were eager to reach their hotel and get their honeymoon in full swing. Venice was made for lovers. As if punctuating the thought, a man and a woman stood silhouetted, sharing a kiss, on one of the picturesque stone bridges spanning the canal.

A wave of sensual longing washed over her. She missed the company of a man. It would be nice to explore the city with a special someone, to feel the warmth of his fingers at her waist, to meet his promising glance, to steal a kiss and have one stolen beneath the lamplight’s glow.

She bit back a sigh. At heart she was a romantic, and those were the things a true romantic yearned for. But life had taught her that being practical and pragmatic took one much further. She knew she was too quick to fall into relationships, and inevitably, she was disappointed.

She pushed aside the faint tingle of awareness and longing that had danced along her skin since clearing customs. An alarming thought came to her and she quickened her pace. Her room. What if it was gone? She was hours late for check-in.

Late. Luggage-less. And hungry. Finding herself room-less would cap a spectacularly draining day.

GAGE TAILED THE THREESOME from a distance. He’d managed to overhear most of the conversation on the vaporetto by positioning himself behind them. And on exiting the craft, he’d brushed against her, planting a nearly nondiscernible audio bug on her knapsack.

Although he had yet to actually see the Gorgon face-to-face, because it’d been crucial she not glimpse him, he could now pick her out of any crowd from a distance. Her distinctive walk combined a straight-forward stride with a sensual slight hip roll.

Gage turned left and followed them down the narrow winding street that branched off of the square, dropping back even farther as pedestrian traffic thinned.

Spy technology had enjoyed some impressive advances since he’d joined the business. Now, even though he was a few hundred meters behind them, he could clearly hear their conversation, that is, were they to actually engage in it.

His listening device replicated one of the hands-free mobile phone devices worn in the ear, but this one was custom-made for him. A couple of years ago, if someone had stolen the device, they would’ve been able to hear whatever he was hearing. But now, the piece only transmitted from the listening device if it recognized the shape of his ear, which was, in effect, the pass code for the piece to function as a listening device. Otherwise it was simply another mobile phone earpiece.

Bloody brilliant it was. He loved all the toys that came with his assignments. Prior to the Gorgon’s landing, he’d bugged both her room and the loo with audio and video. Her every move would be recorded. And if anyone were to leave a package in her room in her absence, he’d know. Were she to send or receive a text message, he’d know. Before the week’s end, he’d be privy to all of the Gorgon’s secrets. One way or another.

They’d almost reached the pensione. Gage darted down an alley shortcut, barely big enough for two, that would put him at the hotel ahead of them. His gut told him the couple wasn’t a contact. Gage excelled at discerning body language and coded glances. He’d guess the Gorgon had befriended them as a cover…or perhaps, as a sexual conquest.

Rumor had it that while the Gorgon might look like the girl next door, she had a penchant for a casual ménage a trois now and then. Would she issue an invitation or was she merely initiating contact before the seduction?

“It should be just ahead,” the bloke said.

“Thank you, both. It was a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we’ll run into one another again?”

“That’d be nice,” the woman said. “We’re just…what, Mark…two streets over?”

“More like one and a half.”

For someone with the Gorgon’s skills, tracking them again would prove easy, Gage thought to himself. She’d invite them to meet her for drinks. One, perhaps two, bottles of Valpolicella later, the wife would visit the loo and the Gorgon would make her move.

She’d lean in close and in her honeyed, slightly smoky, Southern tone, she’d ask if he’d ever had two women at once. She’d murmur of the pleasure to be had by two eager mouths to suck, nibble and kiss all around his world, four skillful hands to stroke and knead him, two of everything intent on pleasuring him. For one night, wouldn’t he like to be the center of attention of two women? No one knew them here. No one would know afterward. It would be their secret pleasure. Maybe she’d slide her hand over his thigh, brush her fingers against his cock, and Mark would convince his bride to play because there wasn’t a man alive, despite what he might tell his wife or girlfriend to the contrary, who wouldn’t want that.

But that would come later. Now the Gorgon merely shared pleasantries. Gage entered the lobby as the trio turned onto the street and quickly mounted the stairs. It would be interesting to discover what contact she’d make once she gained the privacy of her room.

SHE HAD A ROOM. YAY. One potential disaster averted. Holly couldn’t stop smiling as she climbed the wooden stairs behind the proprietress.

It had sounded as if she said her name was Signora Provolone. Holly was certain it was her horrible ear for foreign languages, combined with hunger that had her thinking the woman’s surname was a type of cheese.

After putting in hours studying Italian language tapes, Holly could manage. Proficient, however, was a stretch.

She followed Mrs. Cheese up a third flight of stairs. Despite her exhaustion, Holly was pleased with the hotel. Like everything else she’d seen since arriving, it struck her as enchanting and romantic. There was a faint shabbiness in the threadbare upholstery of the chairs in the lobby, but it suited Holly far more than one of the opulent palazzo hotels would have.

Simple, yet clean. She welcomed the underlying antiseptic aroma of cleaner and wood polish. She also appreciated the old-world courtesy of the woman showing her to her room rather than handing off a key and sending her on her merry way.

Using a skeleton key with a room tag hanging off the end, the other woman unlocked the door at the end of the short hallway off of the top of the landing. No encoded door cards at the Pensione Armand. She handed Holly the key and ushered her into her sparsely furnished, immaculate quarters.

The room itself was narrow with tall ceilings. An arched shuttered window stood opposite the door. Ochre plaster walls warmed the space under the glow of a vintage glass-globed bedside lamp. Hanging above the standard double bed with its simple counterpane, was an oil rendering of the Grand Canal choked with gondolas and other craft in a regatta. A small writing table and chair sat next to a chifforobe. No television. No phone. Lovely.

“Bathroom?”

Signora Provolone beamed and indicated the door next to the chifforobe.

While Holly had booked one of the least-expensive hotels, she’d splurged for a room with private facilities. The idea of a communal bathroom hoisted her germaphobe flag.

The woman’s fast Italian was lost on Holly, but it was easy enough to follow her to the door tucked in the corner. Signora opened the door and stepped back. A sink, toilet and an unenclosed shower—showerhead on the wall with drain in the floor, no shower curtain or glass walls—seemed as clean as the rest of the hotel. Holly’s relief, however, faded at the door opposite the one she stood in.

“This is a private bathroom, right?” What was the word? “Solo? Uno?”

“No, no, no.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out from the proprietress’s hand gestures that Holly would be sharing the room with another guest. The woman brushed past Holly and explained in heavily accented English with more accompanying gestures. The setup was sort of a Jack-n-Jill deal—her interpretation, not Mrs. Provolone’s. When she wanted to use the facility, she was to lock the door leading to the other room from the bathroom. When she was finished and the bathroom was available, she was to unlock the door from inside, close her door behind her and then lock her door from inside her room. Signora Cheese finished her instructions and beamed hopefully at Holly. “Yes?”

Howling in frustration seemed unlikely to get her anywhere other than tossed out. Thank goodness she’d packed a full supply of antiseptic towelettes. Packed. In her luggage. Which wasn’t here. Never mind.

She pasted on what she hoped passed for a smile. “Yes. Grazi.”

The woman left and Holly stood in the center of the room, rolling her head on her neck slowly to release tension. After nearly thirty hours of traveling, thanks to time changes and flight delays, she welcomed the room’s peace and quiet.

She longed for a hot shower, but first things first. She might be pushing the backside of thirty, but her father and her newly minted stepmother, Marcia, had insisted she call once she was safely ensconced in her hotel room. She and her father had always been close, but her decision to find Julia had strained their relationship, particularly once her father realized he couldn’t talk her out of going. Holly thought it was a combination of him not wanting her to get hurt, as well as his feeling as if her determination to find Julia was an insult to him.

She turned on the cell phone reserved for occasional use, thanks to the exorbitant prices per minute charged. Her dad answered on the second ring.

“I’m here. Finally.” No need to mention the lost luggage.

“Thank God. Have you talked to your guide yet?”

“No. Not until tomorrow. The flight delay didn’t affect that.”

“No trouble getting to the hotel?” her father asked.

“I had some help,” she admitted, crossing to open the shuttered window and look out onto the curved street. She almost felt as if she were dreaming.

“Be careful.” Her father was a little on the overprotective side. Most likely from being a single parent all these years, and the fact that she was the youngest and a girl. He definitely wasn’t this way with her brother, Kyle.

“I’m always careful.”

“Just remember, you’re in a foreign country.”

“I’ll be extra careful.” The conversation felt awkward, but then, things had been awkward for a few weeks now. Her father had nearly come unglued at Holly’s decision to find her mother. And when he’d grudgingly confessed that he knew precisely where Julia was because he’d kept up with her whereabouts all these years but never shared the information with her or Kyle, things had definitely been tense.

Actually, tense was an understatement. Kyle had been pissed off that Daddy had left them in the dark all this time. Even Sherrie, Kyle’s sweet wife, who always gave people the benefit of the doubt, had thought it was a crappy thing for their father to do.

Once Daddy had divulged that Julia was still in Venice after twenty-seven years—and saved Holly a ton of search time—she’d declared her intent to travel to Venice, which yet again polarized the family, this time along gender lines.

Kyle thought her spending the time, money and effort to travel to Venice to find Julia was, as he so charmingly put it, “bullshit.” Her father was also dead-set against it.

Her stepmother, however, had supported Holly’s decision. Marcia saw it as a means for Holly to balance her heart chakra. Holly wasn’t sure she bought into the whole chakra thing, but she appreciated Marcia’s support. Sherrie had also thrown her towel into the “Julia meet-’n’-greet” arena, sending school photos of Holly’s niece and nephew and a Wal-Mart family portrait of Kyle, Sherrie and the kids for Holly to share with Julia. Even her cousin Josephine, who had been raised by their grandmother after rebel African soldiers killed her missionary parents, and who was often standoffish and prickly, had jumped in to support Holly’s decision. Josephine, a veteran traveler, was the one who suggested Your Way Travel, a private tour guide operation, given Venice’s winding, confusing streets and Holly’s terrible sense of direction.

Holly found it ironic that Julia had ripped their family apart at the seams years ago and was still tearing at their familial fabric even now. It would’ve been so much easier if Holly had simply abandoned her plans for the sake of maintaining family peace, but scaling this mountain was too important to her.

She had all kinds of conflicting emotions about Julia and what she wanted the outcome of this meeting to be, but in a weird way, the outcome was almost secondary. It was the doing that was so important. It was Holly taking a proactive stance and not waiting on the elusive “one day” when her mother might contact her.

“Are you going to see her tomorrow?” her father asked. Maybe if Holly hadn’t known him so well, she might’ve missed the quiet yearning, the silent heartbreak underlying his question. She hoped Marcia was in another room and couldn’t hear the same thing Holly did.

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet when I’m going to…” What? March up to her door? Introduce herself as Julia’s long-lost daughter, one who’d been deliberately lost? “…initiate contact.” Ah, that had a vague, euphemistic feel to it.

“I still think you should call her first.”

“I’m not calling.” They’d had this discussion countless times, as well. He’d nagged her to call, send a letter, something before she hopped on a plane and traveled across the Atlantic. She was equally adamant she wouldn’t. Celeste McKinney, one of the teachers at her school, had discovered she was adopted and spent years tracking down her birth mother. She’d called first, to give her mother time to adjust to the idea of meeting her daughter, and the mother had flat-out refused, informing Celeste in no uncertain terms it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. It had crushed Celeste. Holly was determined to face Julia one on one. She wasn’t giving her mother the opportunity to turn her down.

Her father’s heavy sigh echoed over the phone. “How about you just call us after you’ve seen her.”

“Fine. Does this time work for you?”

“Whenever you want to call is fine.”

She leaned against the window casing and tamped back a flash of homesickness. Venice was beautiful, but home was home. If she’d been home, she’d be in her chair with a book, with Ming curled up on the ottoman. She could do with a little kitty company right about now. And her own nice clean bathroom.

“You’re picking up Ming tomorrow?” She’d left her seal-point Siamese rescue at home with plenty of food, water and fresh litter. Dad and Marcia had offered to pick him up and baby-sit him at their house. She knew Marcia was behind the peace offering. “Be careful, he’s sneaky. He’ll get out if you’re not careful.”

“We’ll take care of him. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t. I’m not buying trouble.” The second the words left her mouth she recognized her mistake. She closed the shutters and latched them, propping the cell phone awkwardly between her shoulder and head.

“You bought trouble when you purchased your ticket and got on that plane.” Censure marked her father’s gruff voice. They’d had this discussion umpteen times since she’d made her decision. She was here and she certainly didn’t plan to enter yet another futile argument.

She hurried the call to an end and tossed the cell phone onto the bed. A shower, a good night’s sleep and her suitcase should be here tomorrow morning.

Glass half full.

3

THE LOCK CLICKED INTO PLACE on the other side of his door leading to the washroom, and Gage settled back onto the bed in his adjoining room, the laptop monitor giving him a clear view of the loo and the Gorgon’s room. The Gorgon proceeded to examine the washroom. She peered into the corners, stood on her tiptoes to check the showerhead and even gave the toilet itself a cursory once-over.

He grinned and crossed his arms behind his head. He wasn’t sure what she used in the way of spyware, but Gage employed cutting-edge technology. She could look all day and never detect the motion-activated audio-video equipment planted in both rooms.

She offered an almost imperceptible shrug and leaned into the washroom mirror, peering at her face. A queer feeling jolted through him and he shook it off. Her eyes were positively arresting, yet the rest of her face was singularly unremarkable except for a slightly lush mouth.

She sighed and stepped back. Without ceremony, she unzipped and slipped out of her trousers. He wasn’t a voyeur and he would only watch her undress for as long as it took to ascertain she didn’t have any information hidden on her.

Her top came past her thighs, but Gage would’ve had to be a eunuch—and he wasn’t—not to notice and appreciate the lovely length of shapely leg. The Gorgon boasted the legs of a 1940’s pinup girl. She neatly folded her trousers and placed them on a towel on the washbasin’s edge.

In one fluid motion she tugged the top over her head and all the air seemed to suck right out of Gage’s body. Lush rounded curves covered by black knickers, cut high on the thigh and low on the hip, and a black bra. In the center of her chest a small zippered travel pouch was affixed to her two bra straps. Unsnapping the pouch, she stacked it and her top on her trousers.

She raised her arms over her head as she arched her back in a sinuous stretch—a siren’s call, all the more difficult not to heed as she was unaware of her audience—and then brought them down and back. She slowly rotated her head on her neck, as if ridding herself of the day’s tension, and then rolled her shoulders in an unerringly erotic motion.

She reached between her breasts and unhooked her bra. One simple shrug of her elegantly rounded shoulders and it was gone, joining her trousers and top.

Throughout the years, his gallery had displayed countless art pieces with nude subjects in varying states of undress. Strictly as a chap who appreciated the human form as a work of beauty, he was appreciative. Her back, from neck to hip, was a fluid, sensual work of art. Golden brown nipples tipped full breasts. As a man who hadn’t had a lover in months, he noted the alabaster globes, the slight rounding of her belly and the curve of her hips.

She turned and started the shower, stepping aside to avoid the spray. While the water heated, she skimmed her knickers off. A triangle of crisp curls covered the apex between her thighs and her lush bum formed an inverted heart at the base of her spine.

Desire, usually buffered by an emotional distance, slammed into him with a force that shook him. Intense wanting knifed through him, bypassing all rationale and objectivity. She stepped under the shower spray and he deliberately looked away from the screen, drawing a deep breath and holding it before exhaling slowly.

He’d never reacted this way, felt such a…connection to anyone before. His detachment seemed to have deserted him at a most inopportune time.

His operative task was broken down into a series of small objectives, which would ultimately lead to him attaining his primary goal. This particular objective had been satisfied. His cock stirred and he grimaced. Satisfied was a piss-poor choice of wording. How about met? He’d met his objective. He’d ascertained she wasn’t hiding any documents or goods in her clothing, although it could still be in her knapsack or the small pouch she’d worn. To watch her shower moved beyond his professional role and there was no room for that. She was a job. An assignment. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Out of nowhere she moaned, a low, husky direct feed in his ear. Like an adrenaline hit, it shot straight to his cock. What the hell? He glanced at the screen. Her head was tilted back. Water cascaded over her shoulders and the slopes of her honey-tipped breasts, running in rivulets over her belly and down the length of her legs, darkening her pubic hair.

Blood pooled between his thighs, thickening his cock to full attention. So caught up was he in the water flowing over her nakedness, he reached between his legs before he realized what he was about to do.

Bloody hell. He’d never sat about wanking his tool while on assignment and he wasn’t about to take it up now. He deliberately looked away, willing his cockstand back down.

He’d go one better than a cold shower. He’d ring Mason with an update.

“Everything’s in place?” Mason said. “You had time to set up?”

“Yes. She made contact on her mobile. She says everything is set to proceed as normal tomorrow. She referenced a Ming who’s to be picked up tomorrow and she warned he would try to get out.”

“We’ll see what we can find on a Ming. Any other names? Other references?” Mason’s voice sharpened with impatience.

Wouldn’t he have said so? Gage merely said, “No. What about her case? Find anything of interest?”

“It’s clean. We destroyed it, ripped out the seams in her trousers and knickers, even took the locks apart, nothing. Not that we really expected to find much. Anything of consequence will be on her.”

Perhaps in her backpack, or in the pouch she’d carried in her bra but not immediately on her now. The Gorgon was too seasoned to hide anything in her case, although sometimes, the best course of action was the least-anticipated move.

In the next room, the shower stopped. He quickly disconnected the phone.

Listening to the sound of her toweling herself dry, Gage prided himself on his professionalism. There was no need to watch her until she left the washroom. Unfortunately, he seemed singularly incapable of not seeing her in his mind’s eye.

Water splashed in the sink and the accompanying sound of her brushing her teeth echoed in his earpiece. The water ran a bit longer and a quick glance at the screen revealed she was rinsing out her knickers, the hotel towel wrapped around her, sarong-style. In short order, she unlocked his door from the inside, indicating it was free for him to use it, exited the washroom and immediately locked her bedroom door behind her.

He watched her via the monitor as she hung her clothes in the wardrobe and her knickers on a hanger to dry. She retrieved a pair of glasses and a small notebook and pen from her knapsack, placing them on the bedside stand.

Gage had monitored other operatives numerous times and always with a clinical detachment. Why then did it feel so intimate to watch her perform these routine tasks?

The Gorgon stood before her bedroom mirror and finger-combed her tangled hair. “My kingdom for a blow dryer,” she muttered before turning away in disgust. Gage grinned. Poor Gorgon. But that’s what one got when one made a living selling secrets.

She pulled off the towel and draped it over the chair back. “I guess I’ll just have to wear the sheet if there’s a fire in the middle of the night,” she said to her reflection, wrinkling her nose in an innocent way. But Gage knew better. He knew the bad guys weren’t always all bad and he knew the good-guy’s hats were more often gray than white. Still, it struck him as…well, rather cute. One didn’t expect the Gorgon to display a cute side when she was alone in her room talking to herself in the mirror. That’d get him in for a bloody evaluation in no time. Yes, Mason, the Gorgon displays a cute side to her when she’s alone. For chrissakes, puppies and kittens were cute, not sodding spooks. Actually, it’d almost be worth it just to watch the look on Mason’s face at the thought of his number one agent slipping over the edge.