The Lord and the Spy Read online

  No, I wouldn’t be inviting George to join us tonight, I’d decided by the time I reached the door to her office.

  “Come in, Wilder,” George answered when I rapped on her door.

  “You were forewarned.” I sat down in the single chair in front of her desk.

  “You could say,” she responded, not looking away from her computer. “I was instructed to change whatever plans I had this evening.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “That is precisely what I told Z you’d say.”

  “Am I so predictable, George?”

  She turned her head and met my gaze but didn’t speak.

  There’d been a time when I tried to woo the woman sitting in front of me much in the same way I intended to woo Miss Harlow this evening. But before we’d gotten through our first drink, she’d shut me down.

  “I have no intention of jeopardizing my career over a shag, Wilder,” she’d said to me that night in a way that let me know there would be no room for negotiation. I’d often considered her the one that got away, albeit before we’d even gotten started.

  It was wise on her part, given I’d been with the service longer and was also well connected through my family. It didn’t stop me from wondering what it would’ve been like to strip away the tough exterior she presented to the world and get to know George’s softer side.

  “Stop it,” she snapped, looking back at her computer.

  “What?”

  “You’re imagining me sans clothes, and don’t deny it.”

  I smiled at the faint grin on her lips. “I was just thinking that you’ll forever be the one that got away, George.”

  “The sole woman in all of the United Kingdom to refuse to let Sutton Whittaker into her knickers.”

  I rested my chin on my hand. “If you ever change your mind…”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “Was that all you stopped by to chat about?”

  “I heard you’ll soon be moving offices.”

  “If MI5 can ever get you to vacate.”

  “Z isn’t quite as eager for that to happen as you are.”

  “He’s more anxious for you to wrap up your cases, unless you intend to pass them down to me.”

  “I could do.” However, the one that would keep me tied to MI5 couldn’t be passed on to anyone, and it might be years before its final outcome was determined. “Seriously, George, I do believe Z is ready for me to brief you on the majority.”

  “Any but the Matthew Caird case.”

  “All but.”

  “Tomorrow, then, Wild?”

  “Right. Good night, George.”

  Neither Z nor Rivet was anywhere to be found when I returned to my office.

  “You may take your leave, Mrs. Udele,” I said, absentmindedly rapping my knuckles on her desk as I passed by.

  “I’ve reserved your table, sir.”

  I stopped just outside my door. Had I asked her to? Had I even told her my plans for this evening? Sometimes I wondered if the matronly woman who had been my twice predecessors’ secretary had bugged the office, or perhaps she was even a double agent, quietly passing the Crown’s secrets on to the highest bidder for years gone by.

  “Thank you.”

  I watched her put on her coat, hat, and gloves through my open door. She waved, but didn’t say good night or even look my way to see if I’d waved back.

  I picked up my mobile rather than my office phone and called Whittaker Abbey, hoping to reach my brother.

  “Wilder,” answered Shiver. “How’s the world of secrets, lies, and espionage today?”

  “Nowhere near as exciting as you make it sound.”

  He laughed. “I remember all too well.”

  “I was visited by an agent representing US Homeland Security today,” I said, knowing it would ruin my brother’s lighthearted mood, but not having any choice.

  “They’re still determined to extradite Matthew.”

  “Afraid so, Shiv.”

  “He won’t live a month if that happens.”

  I sighed. “The lower court is pushing to allow it.”

  “Has the case been moved on to appeal yet?”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  “Push, Wilder.”

  Shiver’s kindheartedness to the man we’d only learned existed a little over a year ago, often surprised me. As my brother frequently reminded me, Matthew was mentally ill, severely so.

  “You know as well as I do that he didn’t act alone, Wild. It’s up to you to not only prove it, but to also figure out who actually masterminded his plans.”

  There were many things I admired about Shiver, but his concern over a man who tried to kill him, kidnapped the woman who was now his wife, their child, and our sister, baffled me as much as it filled me with regret. If only I could be half as magnanimous.

  “American prisons are woefully inadequate to handle Matthew’s ailments. Their first order of business will be to get him to give them information that he is mentally incapable of.”

  Without Shiver needing to repeat it, I well knew what was expected of me. If my older brother were the one investigating the case, it would most likely be solved by now.

  “Rivet is pushing Z to let me go.”

  Shiver sighed. “It would be nice if he put the needs of the service before his own.”

  “Right.”

  “Sorry, Wild. It isn’t that I don’t believe you’ll make an outstanding MI6 agent, and one day even chief, but this push for you to jump ship in the middle of a case that could take months to solve, is beyond self-serving.”

  “I thought perhaps I’d have better resources on the MI6 side.”

  For the second time, my brother sighed as though he were deflating. “You may be right.”

  “I’ve arranged for Agent Harlow to meet me at Five Hertford.”

  “Interesting,” Shiver said in a voice more animated than it had been since the beginning of our conversation. “You know, there’s always the possibility that the two of you are after the same thing. If that’s the case, all you have to do is convince her to remain in the UK long enough that the appeal court can stop Matthew’s extradition.”

  It was a fairly obvious suggestion, although not something that had occurred to me. Convincing her to stay on my side of the pond in order to work together on the investigation would mean my initial plan to convince the agent to let go of the idea of extradition, followed by a romp in her knickers, as George would say, would have to be curtailed. Shame.

  4

  Wren

  I took a long look in the mirror. The outfit I’d chosen for the evening was conservative enough to be considered prudish, and that was very much by design. The words Sutton “Wilder” Whittaker had uttered moments before I left his office continued echoing in my head.

  This stopped being just dinner the minute you walked into my office. You know it as well as I do.

  If I closed my eyes, I could still feel his close proximity when he spoke. Chill bumps covered my well-hidden skin just thinking about the effect his voice, his breath, his body had on me.

  “You know the type,” Officer Sanborn from DHS had said when we’d discussed the mission. “But you, Harlow, can be counted among the women I know to have the power to resist him. You’d never let someone like Wilder Whittaker get between you and another successfully completed assignment. At the same time, I predict he’ll have a hell of a time resisting you.”

  If the person who’d offered her opinion weren’t also a woman, she would have a huge sexual harassment issue on her hands. As it was, she’d pushed the envelope of what I considered appropriate.

  There was no doubt that Wilder Whittaker was suave, gentlemanly, handsome, and sexy as hell, but there were two kinds of women who I knew could resist him. The first was the most obvious—women who batted for the other team. The second, my type, was more difficult to spot.

  I’d grown up in Texas, spending my days on the back of a horse, counting cattle, mending fences, and always eage
r to outdo my older brother in any task our father assigned. I’d never been what one would consider a Texan Southern belle. Beauty pageants hadn’t been on my radar like they had for my mother, and while I knew plenty of barrel racers who had won several Miss Rodeo titles, I’d never competed.

  The men who appealed to me had calloused hands, rough and rugged from a hard day’s work. They were charming but in a way that made it clear that if they wanted you, they intended to have you.

  Not all who came at me with that intention had been successful. In fact, there were few who could meet my list of expectations. The man who could win my heart needed to be ultra-confident, intelligent enough to carry on a meaningful conversation, and have a body with shoulders as wide as all of my home state, and an ass as rigid as a rock.

  If I had any sense that I could walk all over them, they were finished before the first date. And if they couldn’t outride, out-rope, out-rancher me, they never got a second.

  There was no way the soft-handed Agent Whittaker could come close to measuring up, no matter how good he smelled or how sexy his English accent was. That was why I’d invited him to dinner. I knew that in less time than it took to cook a steak medium-rare, I’d find enough about him to put him in the no-way-in-hell column of men I might’ve once believed I was attracted to.

  I’d almost walked past the unmarked door, but the sole stark marking of the number five on a plain maroon background caught my eye. Finding the door locked, I pressed the equally hard-to-find buzzer.

  The doorman, as Wilder had said he would, greeted me by name and escorted me inside.

  What I saw as I walked through the entry was the last thing I could’ve possibly imagined.

  The boho-chic interior was quintessentially English with clashing patterns and prints on the carpets and walls, perhaps reminiscent of what one might find in an eccentric upper-class country home.

  Eclectic art lined the walls of the various living and sitting rooms the doorman led me past, which were lit by cabaret-style table lamps and warm fires. I nearly laughed out loud when one gentleman walked by, wearing a smoking jacket and velvet slippers while puffing a Cuban cigar.

  I followed my escort down a staircase to a room that could be described as more Parisian than English. Its bohemian decor was capped off by a life-size head and neck of a taxidermied giraffe. Across the dimly lit room with a Moulin Rouge vibe, I saw Wilder at the same moment he saw me.

  “Welcome to LouLou’s,” he said, taking my hand and tucking it inside his arm after thanking the gentleman who had brought me to him. “I thought we’d start with a drink down here before we go up for dinner.”

  I took a seat on a zebra-print bar stool. “This is an interesting place,” I said, looking around the room. “I can only imagine what sorts of debauchery must take place here in the wee hours.”

  Wilder’s laugh was hearty, and his mercurial expression no doubt charmed the pants off most of the women who came before me as his date at Five Hertford.

  “You’re dressed quite English this evening,” he said, looking me up and down.

  There was little I could find about the private club online with the exception of the dress code for both ladies and gentlemen. Even then, I was uncertain whether my choice of a simple dark-red sweater over tweed wool pants, and boots that were also dark red, would be considered too casual. Evidently not, considering some of the fashion choices I’d glimpsed as I walked through the strange yet intriguing place.

  “I took the liberty,” said Wilder as the bartender set a glass of bourbon, neat, in front of me.

  I swirled the amber liquid, lifted it to my nose, and inhaled.

  “It’s lovely,” I said before taking a sip of what I recognized by scent alone as one of my favorites. I’d lay money that Wilder had had the bartender pour Booker’s, one of the only bourbons to be bottled straight from the barrel, not cut or filtered. It was pretty powerful stuff, hard to find, but delivered a raw smokiness I loved.

  As I had with the man in the smoking jacket, I almost laughed when the bartender set a martini in front of Wilder.

  “How James Bond of you.”

  “I always saw him as more of a beer-drinking bloke rather than the type who would quell a rather mundane yet grueling day at the office with shaken vodka.”

  “Not that he was ever in an office.”

  “Precisely.” Wilder studied the drink in his hand. “I envy him that,” he murmured.

  “From what I’ve heard, the position you’re leaving MI5 for is even more of a desk job.”

  Wilder bestowed a second mercurial smile on me that quickly turned almost sorrowful. “As my brother so kindly pointed out to me earlier, I have it in me to make…what was the word he used…an outstanding MI6 agent and perhaps chief one day.”

  He looked away then, as though he was embarrassed by the admission.

  “I have an older brother. We don’t speak often,” I blurted, surprised at my own confession.

  “No?”

  I shook my head and took a sip of the almost-taste-bud-singeing spicy liquid that gifted enough hints of vanilla, cinnamon, and coffee on the finish it was tempting never to swallow.

  Wilder nodded but didn’t speak.

  I took another sip. “When I chose to further my career in Washington over riding the range and repairing fences with him on a daily basis, my brother deemed me not only selfish, but unappreciative as well.”

  Wilder stood, surprising me.

  “What do you say we leave both of our siblings here in LouLou’s and go upstairs to dinner?”

  I felt the heat rise on my cheeks, wondering what had compelled me to be so forthcoming about my brother.

  “Perhaps we should do this another time,” I said, downing the remaining bourbon in the glass.

  Wilder rested his hand on the bar and leaned in so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.

  “Never apologize for sharing something about yourself with me, Miss Harlow. I am honored that you trust me enough to do so.”

  “I don’t ever…”

  Wilder’s eyes stayed focused on mine. “I don’t either.”

  I waited, wondering, with his lips so close, if he’d try to kiss me, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back and offered his arm as he had when I’d been escorted in.

  He led me up the same winding staircase and into one of the rooms with a lit fireplace that I’d noticed earlier. Once inside, he pulled the pocket door closed behind us.

  “Mighty cozy,” I drawled.

  Wilder motioned to the table and held my chair. The formal place setting in front of me was as eclectic as everything else I’d laid eyes on since walking into the Five Hertford. There was no doubt it was the finest mismatched silver I’d ever seen.

  “Dinner will be served shortly,” Wilder said, joining me at the table after making a brief call on the old-fashioned-looking phone sitting on a small side table next to the two chairs that faced the fireplace.

  “May I?” He motioned to an open bottle of wine.

  “Please.” I watched as he poured, twisting the bottle effortlessly so as not to spill a drop as he lifted it away from my glass.

  “Are all of the dining rooms this private?”

  “Not at all. In fact, most of the other rooms are quite a bit larger.”

  He placed his napkin on his lap, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on the edge of the table.

  “Please say whatever is on your mind,” I said, trying to shake off my discomfort over my earlier frankness.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  In an act that would’ve been pure drama, I considered tossing my napkin on the table and walking out, but something told me that my attempt at humor might fall flat.

  “I didn’t phrase that very well. I didn’t mean it the way you’re probably thinking.”

  “You have the floor, Agent Whittaker. Speak your piece.”

  Wilder sat back in his chair. “I know that I suggested we leave our sib
lings behind while we enjoyed dinner, but I must admit, mine brought something to my attention earlier that I find myself anxious to give him credit for.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He said, in essence, we both want the same thing.”

  He waited as though he was giving me time to protest.

  “Very well,” he murmured when I didn’t say anything. “You want to extradite Caird to the US in order to question him about whom he was working with. The UK seeks the same information.”

  “And your brother’s suggestion?”

  “We work together.”

  “I assume he’s suggesting that it be done in the UK.”

  “You are aware that Matthew is mentally ill.”

  “Our government would conduct their own tests to determine the validity of his illness.”

  “He wouldn’t survive it.”

  “The tests?”

  “The trip to the US.”

  Before I could ask what he meant, there was a rap at the door. Wilder waited for me to nod before he stood and slid it open.

  Something that smelled absolutely divine was wheeled in on a cart and dramatically placed in front of me.

  “Lobster bisque,” the server announced as he removed the silver dome.

  “I can assure you there is none better anywhere in the world,” Wilder said as the server placed the same in front of him.

  “Is there anything else I can bring at this time, sir?” the man asked.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” I answered when both Wilder and the waiter looked at me.

  “Shall I close the door on my way out, sir?” he asked.

  “Please,” Wilder answered. “Where were we?”

  “Caird’s extradition and our unwillingness to take no for an answer.”

  Wilder smiled. “There’s no point in continuing that conversation. SIS will never agree to it.”

  “My assignment is strictly to extradite a man who is wanted for crimes committed in the United States. The treaty is quite clear—”

  Wilder held up his hand. “I am aware of the extradition treaty.”