good hands.”
During the half-hour ride to the airport, Miranda ignored the suggestive jokes and lame double entendres of her escort, concentrating instead on the script and discovering that this was really a fairly simple assignment. All she had to do was act naturally while keeping in mind the location of the four video cameras—one on the front steps of the apartment building, one in the lobby, the elevator camera, and the one positioned over the exterior of the elevator doors at the end of the hall leading to her apartment.
For the first “date,” she and Ortega were apparently just going to talk, and while the security system wouldn’t actually record their words, the script reminded them to get into their roles and stay in them. The date would end in the hallway, with Ortega kissing her respectfully.
The second date was also fairly mild. More talking for the cameras, but in an intimate fashion, with occasional nuzzling. A lingering kiss at the door, an invitation into the apartment, from which Ortega would be taped leaving after only a few minutes with a look of frustration on his face, as though he had been sure he was about to score.
Clever, she had to admit. Sounds like a real second date.
The third date was scripted as an inferno, complete with make-out sessions in the lobby, elevator and hall. Ortega would again be invited in, and this time he’d stay until early morning, when the cameras would catch him leaving, a satisfied expression on his face.
Most of the footage would be spliced into existing tapes, but this last bit—Ortega’s final exit—would be caught in real time, which meant he would actually spend the rest of the night with her.
It was already close to 4:00 a.m., and it would take at least an hour to get back to her place and film the three dates. They had to be finished long before 7:00 a.m., when the residents of her apartment building were first expected to venture into the hallways. Had it been a weekday morning, the timetable would have been almost impossible to plan, but this was Friday night—or more accurately, Saturday morning—and so they had a little more leeway.
“Time for your hot date,” Mark announced, slowing his black SUV to a stop on a dark stretch of road near the airport. “Ortega’s limo should be showing up any minute.”
She nodded. “I’m just going to leave this script with you if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Enjoy yourself. I know Ortega will.”
“Did I mention you’re a pig?” she grumbled.
“I’ll call you when this is all over. We’ll have a drink and laugh about it. No hard feelings.”
“I’d love to get together when we’re both off duty,” she said with a purr. “It’ll give me a chance to beat the crap out of you.” Jumping from the vehicle, she slammed the door, then rested her thumb and little finger against her cheek in imitation of a phone, mouthing the words “Call me.”
Her driver scowled, revved the engine and sped away, just as a limousine rolled into view. It pulled up until the right rear passenger door was within inches of where she stood. Then the door opened, and she had to remind herself to take a deep breath before peeking inside. “Director Ortega?”
“Agent Cutler?” A handsome, dark-haired man gave her a reassuring smile. “Get in. We’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it.”
She slid in next to him, still forcing herself to breathe normally, but it wasn’t easy. For one thing, he was better looking than she had imagined he’d be. High cheekbones; wavy blue-black hair; an infectious smile. And his eyes were amazing—dark brown with flecks of bronze. She was sure he was well-built, but for the moment, she couldn’t get past his arresting face to check out the rest of him.
Of course, she’d find out about the body soon enough….
“Jane really outdid herself,” he told her simply. “You’ve got just the right look. I assume she told you about my history with sexy redheads?”
Miranda flushed. “If there had been more time, I would have done something to bring out more red highlights—”
“It’s perfect the way it is. Auburn, right?”
She nodded.
Ortega touched her arm. “This is an unconventional assignment, especially for a rookie. It’s okay to be a little nervous.”
“I’m just excited,” she countered, then she flushed again, fearing he’d misinterpret her enthusiasm.
“Great. So? I assume you’ve read the script? How would you like to proceed?”
Miranda gave her shoulders a small shrug. “Jane Smith seemed to think we should…well…fool around a little—”
“Jane Smith is a freaking robot about this kind of thing,” he interrupted, his jaw muscles visibly clenching. “I apologize for her.”
Miranda closed her eyes and was able to breathe normally for the first time since she’d entered the vehicle. “That’s okay.”
“Do you need a drink?”
“No. Not at all.” She gave him a grateful smile. “It really is an honor to assist you, sir.”
“How much did she tell you about my predicament?”
“You’ve been framed for murder. It’s outrageous,” she added staunchly. “No one would believe you’re a killer—”
“I am a killer,” he corrected her. “But not a murderer. So? What do you say we get acquainted? The old-fashioned way. By talking,” he added, his warm smile returning.
He had read Miranda’s file—in fact, he seemed to have memorized it—and asked thoughtful questions about her life on the ranch both before and after the accident that put her father in a wheelchair. He remarked on her awards, complimented her performance during training and smoothly integrated some suggestions regarding their upcoming dates, mostly having to do with her comfort level as he repeatedly reminded her that as his date, she always had the right to say “no” to any move he made. If at any time his pace made her uncomfortable, she had only to say one word to make him back off.
Just like a real date….
“According to your file, they’ve got you in some sort of language immersion program. What’s that about?”
“It’s something new they’re trying,” she explained. “Exposing me to twelve different languages at one time. Not so much to learn any of them, obviously, but to be able to recognize them, and identify key words, patterns, that sort of thing.”
“Have they said why?”
“No, but I’m dying to find out. Some assignment in an international hub, I’m guessing. Or—” she paused to smile “—maybe they just want to see what it does to my thought patterns.”
He nodded in agreement. “Has it affected your dreaming?”
“Not yet. But I’m supposed to keep a dream journal. Do you have a theory?”
“No. But it’s fascinating. You’ll
