Exit Strategy

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 have to tell me how it all works out.”

His mood was so calm, especially given his circumstances, the effect was almost eerie, and so relaxing that Miranda had to shake herself back to attention when the limousine drew to a halt on a side street two blocks from her apartment.

“We’ll walk from here,” Ortega explained, his tone suddenly brisk. “Remember, even though there’s no audio, we’ll stay in character—words as well as actions. You never know when someone might be a lip-reader.”

“I understand.”

The driver opened the door, and Miranda slid out of the vehicle, followed by Ortega. For the first time, she realized how tall he was, and definitely well-built in his black polo shirt and tan slacks. He was staring down at her, the bronze flecks in his eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting, and she barely noticed the limousine pull away.

“Ready?”

She nodded, moistening her lips.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “There’s something you should know, Miranda. I won’t be acting tonight. I’m extremely attracted to you.”

“It’s the hair,” she said, trying for a light tone.

“You’d be gorgeous even if you shaved it all off.” He cupped her chin in his rough hand. “Remember what I said. If I go too far, too fast, resist. I’ll slow it right down.”

“Okay. Thanks. And vice versa,” she added without thinking.

Ortega stared for a second, then chuckled warmly, and for the first time that night she felt as though she had surprised him. Maybe even impressed him.

It was a good feeling, and as she let him take her hand and escort her down the street, she reminded herself that she was more than a pliable rookie. She was a trained officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a lot more to offer than just auburn hair and video cameras.

She quickly learned that Ortega was a master at pretending. In fact, he turned their assignment into her best first date ever! He wanted to know everything—her favorite movie, favorite food, favorite book. He teased, bringing a smile to her lips again and again. And through it all, he was respectful and attentive.

And relaxed. She marveled at this above all. He had been framed for murder less than six hours earlier, yet here he was, bantering with her as if they were completely carefree. The alibi would succeed, she realized, not because of hot-and-heavy scenes, but because of this man’s attitude.

And the cameras had ample opportunity to memorialize that attitude, as Miranda and her date paused to chat on the doorstep, then again in the lobby. When the elevator arrived, she expected more of the same, and was surprised—and pleased—when he stepped up his attention just a bit, backing her into the corner and telling her in a husky voice how attractive she was.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers for an unscripted kiss so gentle, yet also so thorough, that she actually heard a small moan of delight emanate from her throat.

Ortega buried his face in her hair and murmured, “Nice touch,” sending a shudder of arousal right through her.

Conscious that her cheeks were flaming red, she darted through the elevator doors the instant they opened, then turned and motioned for him to join her as an afterthought. His eyes twinkled as he followed her to her door, and when she began fumbling for her keys, he reached for her again, his expression supremely confident.

But Miranda was ready, bracing her arms against his chest and pushing gently, her eyebrow arched in warning. And true to his word, he immediately backed off, a frustrated grin on his face.

“Let’s save something for next time, shall we?” she told him.

“Wednesday? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“It’s a date.”

Unlocking the door, she swung it open, then watched as he ambled back to the elevator. When he turned to give her one last, impish smile, she felt another surge of arousal, and had to dart into the apartment and slam the door shut.

Oh my God….

She leaned against the wall, enjoying the sensation for a moment, then reminded herself they were on the clock. The script allowed a scant two minutes for her to change clothes, sweep her long, loose hair into a braid and redo her makeup, exchanging the gray eyeshadow for a vibrant rust with lip gloss to match.