“Carter whatever-you-want-it-to-be. Or you can call me Holt if that has moreallure.”
She threw him awhatevslook.
He laughed, wholeheartedly this time, and she recognized it from Nika’s description in the book:a surprisingly boyish giggle, four notes rising in pitch, which came with a rare glimpse of those top teeth. There really was no need to ask for his ID. “Beck. Carter Beck.”
Carter Beck. It suited him. Masculine, worldly, smart. Sexy. She mouthed the name, feeling the rhythm of it. She couldn’t have done better herself.
“Uh, so those window cleaners,” she said, snapping herself back to reality—or whatever this was. “They sounded Russian?”
“One was definitely Russian. Couldn’t hear the other.”
“Like, what kind of Russians?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who are they? Why are they dressed up as window cleaners and coming to find me?”
“My guess? Illegals. Sleeper agents, potentially.”
“What, like actual Russian spies?”
“Like actual spies. Except, notlikeactual spies. Actually actual spies.”
“Why would they be after me?”
“Again, just a guess, but if the Kremlin was involved in the killing in Moscow, it might be in their best interests if you weren’t around to point out that I wasn’t, in fact, the killer.”
“If Iwasn’t around?”
“But hey, I’m spitballing, so don’t take my word for it. Go ask them, if you like. No, seriously, don’t.”
As they walked through the staff parking lot, her eyes drifted to her assigned spot. She gasped. Her car wasn’t there.
Of course it’s not, numbskull.
Holt’s eyes—Carter’s eyes—narrowed. She shook her head. On any other day of her life it wouldn’t have been possible to forget that her car was stuck between two buildings. Who knew a life could be flipped upside down in the space of half an hour—and how would she unflip it to return to her pleasantly ordinary routine? She had exam marks to collate, tennis to coach, a plumber coming first thing tomorrow to install a bathroom vanity, Kimberly’s bachelorette party on Friday. Truth be told, she was more excited about the new vanity than the night out—the existing one had been installed by her father before she was born, and early 1980s bathroom vanities weren’t famous for their style. These were the things that marked her days, not subpoenas and rogue window cleaners and former SEALs turned spies turned… Actually, what was this guy now? Earlier he’d called himself a “former” spy. In the ending of her book, Holt had eluded his former bosses and slunk off into the shadows, never to be seen again.
As they rounded a corner to the service gate, she froze. A garbage truck was parked in the bay. Carter passed her, pulling a set of keys from a pocket.
“Your limousine,” he said, retrieving her purse and tossing the garbage bag into a dumpster.
“We’re stealing a garbage truck?”
“Not at all.”
“You found it on the lot at Avis?”
“It’s only used in the mornings. And, believe it or not, the Montrose Waste Transfer Station does not have world-class security.” He handed her the purse and opened the passenger door for her. Numbly, she pulled herself up. “This beast is surprisingly invisible on a suburban street.”
He closed her door, rounded the front and climbed into the driver’s seat. If it wasn’t a garbage truck, this might look like a date. He started it up.
“So wearestealing it,” she said as he slotted it into gear.
“No.”
Her bestWhat are you on?look was wasted as he drove it onto the road.
“I already stole it. Past tense. So, no, we’re notstealingit. Legally, I imagine you can’t be charged with stealing the same thing twice, unless you give it back in between. Anyway, I only borrowed it. We’re about to return it without a scratch.”
