Spy Candy Read online

  SHAKEN, NOT STIRRED

  Making sure I had his full attention, I slowly unzipped the jumpsuit. Down to the tops of my fake breasts. Pause.

  His pen stilled.

  Zip. Over the girls, past the hips, down to the crotch. I gave one shoulder a shimmy shake sending the silicone girls bouncing as I stripped the jumpsuit off one shoulder. Then the next. I’d watched Logan’s strip aerobics DVD a time or two and it was coming in handy now as I worked up to the grand finale.

  I gave my bottom a healthy wiggle as I scooched the overalls past my hips and stepped out of them, one elongated leg at a time.

  His gaze was glued to my crop top. When I looked down, I realized it was plastered with sweat against my body in much the same way as a wet T-shirt clings. I kicked the coveralls into the corner and stepped directly in front of him, feigning trying to get a glimpse of my chart. In reality, I was just giving him a better look down my blouse.

  “Hey, you were a real trooper.” His tongue was thick on his words. He was looking down at me. I was looking up at him, standing way too far into his personal space. “Five times isn’t bad. Great big, brave policemen don’t do any better.”

  Our gazes locked.

  “Thanks.”

  He cleared his throat. “You probably better send the next CT in.”

  “You’re probably right.” I reluctantly stepped back and turned to leave. I paused at the door to call to him. “Bet no one else is as good as me.” I winked and raced out, giving him a wave over my back, being careful not to turn and let him see the big, fat grin on my face. Let him figure me out.

  SPY

  CANDY

  GINA ROBINSON

  All copyrighted material within is

  Attributor Protected.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2008 by Gina Robinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  All Kensington titles, imprints and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn. Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-2226-8

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-2226-6

  First Printing: November 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  SHAKEN, NOT STIRRED

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  For, Jeff, I love you.

  Thanks for always believing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With a debut novel, there are always so many people to thank. I’m blessed to have a large family and many friends who’ve supported me in my dream over the years. I’m particularly grateful to my husband and my three Js, my children, for their unwavering support, love, and faith. Thank you to my parents for so many things, beginning with driving three hundred miles to watch the kids so I could go to my first writers’ conference, right up to the present, for driving those same three hundred miles to celebrate my sale with me.

  I have a fantastic critique group. They’ve read my work, given me tough literary love, and laughed and cried with me over the years. Thanks so much to Joleen Wieser, Gerri Russell, Heather Hiestand Pruett, and Judith Laik.

  Thank you to my fabulous, tenacious agent, Kim Lionetti, for choosing the idea for Spy Candy from my pile of story ideas, for her suggestions that improved the book, her guidance, and her belief in my work. And of course, I’m indebted to my excellent editor, Peter Senftleben, for buying the book, making suggestions to improve the story, and guiding me through the publication process.

  Chapter One

  “Chocolate martini. Shaken, not stirred.” I crossed my legs and attempted a sexy Domino-style, vixenlike perch on my bar stool as I awaited my spy camp contact in Martini Junction, an airport lounge at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. In the process of tugging down my skintight miniskirt, I wobbled precariously.

  The bartender, obviously adept at handling drunks and travel-weary patrons, reached across the counter and caught my elbow, steadying me. He spoke directly to my silicone-bra-insert-enhanced cleavage. “You want a Hershey’s Kiss in that?”

  “Make it two.” I sighed, wishing I’d been blessed with the sexpot gene and knew how to take advantage of that stare. Frankly, even though I’d just crossed a big milestone birthday, I didn’t have much experience with men ogling me.

  Turning thirty wouldn’t have been so bad, really, if my life had been more Bond girl and less Moneypenny. Just because I have a head for finance and am good with numbers doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life approving loans and assessing some guy’s bottom line from across a desk.

  The day my deadbeat dad, Jack, took me to my first Bond flick, The Living Daylights, I instantly fell in love with Timothy Dalton. Ever since then, I’ve dreamed of being a Bond girl. What girl wouldn’t want to spend her time saving the world on the arm of a daring, handsome spy, with some hot sex thrown in for good measure? The only downside I can see to being Bond’s sidekick, besides the danger, is the naming convention. Dr. Warmflash? Honey Ryder? Pussy Galore? Holly Goodhead? Come on.

  Fortunately, my name is plain old Jenna Jarvis. Family and friends call me Jen. I live one ordinary day after another. Shut off the alarm at six thirty every morning. Put on the suit. Commute to work. Run the numbers. Just what you’d expect from a banker.

  But for one week, I’ll be known by my campassigned code name, Domino, like James Bond’s bodacious brunette love interest in Thunderball. I’m supposed to dress and act the part, too. It’s all part of the deluxe fantasy adventure vacation that my friend Logan gave me for my birthday. All part of my cover. Which I’ve been warned not to blow.

  Fantasy Spy Camp, or FSC, as they like to be called, sent a dossier and a sample costume prop—a hot-pink bikini top. When I tried it on, it looked like a limp string connecting a pair of deflated balloons from a Barbie birthday party. Logan laughed at me when I came out of my bedroom to show her. Either someone at spy camp had a warped sense of humor, or Logan had set me up.

  “You look like Joey in drag. “Joey is Logan’s ten-year-old nephew. “You can’t be a boy-figured Domino, Jen. You just can’t. It’s not right.”

  I didn’t like the wicked gleam in her eye. And with good
reason. I’ve known Logan since junior high. Her mission in life is to make people happy. If that includes making them over, so much the better. I love her despite this flaw.

  Now, less than twenty-four hours later I found myself remade into a twenty-first-century version of Domino, courtesy of Logan’s lottery winnings. Brows waxed into a perfect arch, acrylic nails professionally applied, hair extensions, and silicone bra inserts for that babe-o-licious bounce factor, as Logan put it. It made me want to hide out in my room. I’m not the kind of girl who’s used to strutting around on stiletto heels with her bosoms spilling out for all to see.

  Logan won a thirty million-dollar Powerball lottery last year all by her little lonesome—single jackpot winner-take-all. Logan has always been lucky. And fiscally careless. For her sake, I founded a lottery winners’ support group, the Unexpected Money Institute, UMI, and made her a charter member. If not for me, Logan would have blown through her winnings already and been one of those sad, broke-and-living-in-a-trailer lottery stories you hear about from time to time. Well, maybe not the trailer, but definitely broke and selling her Manolo Blahniks on eBay to raise rent money.

  The bartender set my drink in front of me.

  “This hasn’t been shaken,” I said as I glanced at it. Maybe it was stupid to call a hunky, burly guy on his lack of drink-making skills, but I’d never been accused of having a lot of social smarts. “Clear as a bell. No bubbles.” I pointed to my glass.

  He shrugged.

  “You know, shaking is good for business. It enhances the flavor of the drink. Not to mention it ups the antioxidant activity, which reduces the risk of stroke and heart disease. And cataracts. Shake all your martinis and I bet you could market them as health drinks. It’s a good angle.” Well, it was a good plan if the FDA or whoever was in charge of those things would let him get away with it.

  He gave me a straight face, obviously absolutely underwhelmed by my idea. After stealing a final glimpse at my breasts, he walked off to the far end of the bar, shaking his head in a way that indicated it was too bad I was such a crazy broad because I had a nice rack. Obviously, that was the only shaking he was going to do this evening.

  Okay, I know a lot of Bond trivia. Maybe more than the average person. Maybe too much. I’m more of a Bond geek than a Bond girl. Like I know Bond’s martini contains 130 calories, the approximate amount he burns having sex. In a single encounter. Mine probably had a few more calories and I knew I wasn’t going to burn any off having sex.

  I fished one of the chocolate Kisses from my drink and sucked on it while I scanned the room for my contact. My instructions said that after deplaning, I was to go directly to Martini Junction, where I’d receive instructions on where to find a blond woman reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal with the left-hand corner turned down. I was to approach her surreptitiously, repeat a code phrase, and she’d give me directions to the camp bus.

  I had expected someone would ‘bump” into me and slip me a note. Only so far that hadn’t happened. I pulled the FSC dossier from my bag and took a quick look at the photo of the woman I was supposed to be looking for.

  I couldn’t help smiling at the warning on the FSC cover page: “Because of the nature of this vacation, potential campers should not divulge to others their reservation at FSC. Failure to observe the confidentiality of a reservation may affect eligibility to have fun.” The wording was right off the MI6 employment page. Though I suppose most people wouldn’t know that, either.

  On any account, their secrets were safe with me. I hadn’t told a soul. Only Logan knew my top-secret vacation plans.

  I scanned the room, catching the eye of a dark-haired, fortyish man seated at a table a few feet away. A bowler hat rested on his briefcase. He stood and I got my hopes up for about half a second that he was my contact. Then he walked right past me, stealing a peek at my cleavage as he went by.

  There was something familiar about Bowler Hat Man. Before I could place him, a page sounded over the PA system, interrupting the steady flow of light hits of yesterday and today that played in the background.

  “Ms. Jarvis. Ms. Jenna Jarvis. Please pick up a white courtesy phone.”

  I started and, without thinking, slid off my stool, ready to rush to the phone. I’d seen one in the hall outside Martini Junction. I grabbed my purse and bag. If something was wrong at home, Logan or Uncle Bob would call me on my BlackBerry. My heart skipped a beat. Must be my contact calling!

  I stepped outside into the bustle of airport foot traffic, immediately falling into one of those annoying little “let’s get around each other” dances with a harried older woman pulling a flowered suitcase stacked with a hatbox and suit bag. After three or four unfortunate blocking moves, she grabbed my arm.

  “Stop where you are. Just let me get around you. I have a connection to catch!” She looked me up and down and shook her head disgustedly as she shoved past me, muttering something about brazen young women who should stop dressing like hookers and learn some modesty.

  I was taken aback and froze in place. No one had ever accused me of immodesty before. I was a paragon of modesty. I looked down at my outfit. But Domino wasn’t. And I was supposed to be Domino.

  That’s when I began to think like Domino and had a lightbulb moment—why would my contact be paging the real me? What if this page was a setup to see if I’d blow my cover? What if this was a test? I mean, if I picked up the phone, anyone watching and paying attention would see that I was plain old Jenna Jarvis and not Domino. On the other hand, what if I just had a vivid imagination and by not answering I missed my directions? How long would the FSC bus wait for me? I stood watching the phone and debating. My first spy conundrum. What would James Bond do?

  I glanced around, looking to see if anyone was watching the phone. Like I was some kind of big spydetecting expert. Fortunately, unlike Logan, who could walk right past her own father without recognizing him, I’ve always been observant. I suddenly spotted my airport contact, a statuesque model-type blonde, sitting in a chair just down the hall from Martini Junction. And just to remove any doubt, she was holding a copy of the Wall Street Journal with the left-hand corner folded down.

  I resisted the urge to punch the air in victory and made my way toward her, taking a seat next to her. Remembering my instructions and the code, I said, “I’m looking for a good stock tip.” I nodded toward her newspaper. “Any hot picks in there?”

  My contact sized me up in a not totally warm fashion. “I’m finished with it. Do you want it?” She held it out to me, along with a single sheet of paper neatly tucked inside.

  I nodded at her again, took the newspaper, and popped into the ladies’ room to read my instructions. I stared at my unfamiliar profile in the mirror for a moment. The silicone bra inserts made my slender five-foot-five frame positively curvaceous. No wonder the boys liked them. If I’d realized back during my painful acne years the full power of a pair of stacked breasts to divert the male eye from my face, I would’ve stuffed my bra.

  I slid into a stall in the ladies’ room to read my instructions, positively gleeful and full of praise for my own brilliance. I was one smart spy cookie!

  Just for fun, after I’d memorized the info on the sheet, I blacked out all the information with a marker from my purse and then tore the page into shreds, stopping just short of flushing them. That was probably over the top. Instead, I stuffed the paper bits into the metal box on the stall wall that was reserved for disposing of tampons and sanitary pads. No one was going to look in there!

  I hurried toward the airport exit, full of anticipation and fear. Could a girl like me who mostly only dreams of adventure really hack it at spy camp?

  Chapter Two

  July back home in Seattle is pleasantly warm. July in Phoenix is simply torrid. Yeah, it’s a dry heat, but so what? So’s my oven. I wouldn’t want to vacation there, either.

  The force of the heat hit me the minute I stepped from the air-conditioned cool of the terminal. The average human bo
dy is something like 90 percent water. Only Seattleite’s bodies are more like 95 percent liquid on account of living in the rain and “marine air,” as the weathermen call it. I felt my water content plummet and my lips crack beneath my moisture-whipped lip gloss.

  Because Logan coerced me into it, I wore one of my new Domino outfits—low-cut black Lycra tank top, black shrug, wide black belt, skintight black miniskirt, a magenta headband to spice things up, and spiky-heeled magenta sandals—with bows, no less—to match the headband. Dragging my bag behind me, I wobbled on my killer bow-toed sandals toward a crowd waiting for the FSC bus in the blistering Phoenix sun.

  Being more of a looks-like-a-sensible-heel-feels-like-a-sneaker girl, I was the perfect picture of discomfort and discomportment, if there is such a word. My black tank top wicked up heat like a superabsorbent paper towel and stuck to my body in a way that would have made the Brawny Man’s eyes pop out. Worse yet, sweat pooled underneath my fake boobs. Who knew silicone retained so much heat? I hoped I wasn’t getting an underarm ring. Bond girls don’t do underarm rings.

  I stopped at the back of the spy crowd, stuffed the shrug in my duffel, and lifted the hair off my neck in a search for cool. Probably summer in Phoenix wasn’t the best time to go long. I was going to have to master the updo, and quick.

  As I tried to surreptitiously unstick my tank top from my body, I noticed the parking lot was awash in gleaming, highly reflective, white vehicles. Why did I get the feeling that black was color non grata down here?

  The bus pulled up before I had a chance to meet or assess my campmates. The last camper, a lanky thirtysomething guy with receding brown hair, ran for the bus after the rest of us had boarded, flagging it like he would a taxi. The inside of our chartered bus was mercifully air-conditioned. With my mind off my physical discomforts, I surveyed my fellow campers. There was only one other woman in the group. She sat in the seat in front of me and looked to be in her late forties. Thin, fit, even buff in a stringy, slight way, with short, cropped, bleached blond hair. Definitely an athlete’s build of the longdistance runner variety. She introduced herself as Emma Peel, but she wasn’t wearing the skintight catsuit characteristic of John Steed’s spying cohort of The Avengers fame. Maybe they’d sent one to her as a prop, and like me, she’d thought better of wearing it on the plane. I pegged her accent as Australian laced with a dose of American, like she’d spent several years in the States.