The Elliotts: Bedroom Secrets: Under Deepest Cover. Barbara Dunlop
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“They don’t. This is a special occasion.”
“Why? Surely this case isn’t a particularly big or significant one. You must have dozens, hundreds of people attempting to funnel funds to terrorists.”
He debated how much to tell her. But he decided she could handle the truth. He wanted her to understand she could trust no one but him. “I have strong reason to believe I’ve been betrayed by my own people—which means there’s not a safe house in our system that’s truly safe. This is the one place I could think of where no one could possibly find you.”
“You mean, the people you work with—the other spies—don’t know where you live?”
“They don’t even know my name. To the others in my cell, and even to my boss, I’m Casanova.”
“Wow.”
The elevator doors opened, and Bryan led Lucy into his private living space. A couple of years ago, he’d bought the entire building where Une Nuit was located. He’d renovated and expanded the dining area, used the second floor for offices and storage, and had the top two floors converted to living space.
He’d spared no expense—he hadn’t had to. Though he had some family money, and he was well paid as a top-echelon government agent, this was the home that Une Nuit had built. The restaurant, which he’d originally opened as a cover so that not even his closest friends and family would know of his true vocation, had become unexpectedly popular—and lucrative.
The apartment’s floor plan wasn’t completely open, but a few interior walls had been placed at odd angles so the place didn’t feel like a box. The foyer opened up on one side to an enormous, modern kitchen he’d designed himself, with the latest in brushed-steel appliances. The kitchen was open to the living room, which faced a row of tall windows looking out onto Columbus Avenue. The floor was the original warehouse planking, sanded and polished to a high sheen. Some walls he had left as natural brick, while he’d had others plastered and painted a pristine white.
The furnishings were ultramodern, comfortable but sparse. He did his entertaining in the restaurant, so he didn’t need lots of chairs or sofas. Original art adorned the space, but again, not too much—a small abstract painting here, a funky sculpture there. Things he’d seen, wanted, picked up. Mostly from starving artists getting their starts, although a few pieces might be worth some serious money by now.
“I love this place!” Lucy whirled around, trying to take it all in. “You live here? You actually live here?”
“When I’m home, which lately hasn’t been all that often.”
“How long will I be staying here? Not that I’m complaining, just trying to prepare myself. Will you want me to testify at a trial? Will I have to stay indoors all the time, or can I go out?”
He smiled at her exuberance, which radiated from her every pore. He’d thought her plain when he first saw her, but he could see that wasn’t true, even in those horrible orange pants. She had an infectious smile and bright, lively eyes in a shade of pale blue he’d seldom seen.
“I won’t keep you locked up like a prisoner,” he said. “We’ll be able to venture out some. I don’t imagine you’ll run into anyone you know this far from home.” As for his family, there was no way to avoid them. He would have to find a way to explain her sudden presence in his life.
“Um, actually, that’s not true,” she said. “I lived here for a while.”
“What?” This was news to him. The exhaustive background check he’d done on her hadn’t mentioned any residences in New York. “That’s impossible.” But then he remembered those two years when she’d disappeared from the system.
“Have you ever heard of a band called In Tight?” she asked.
“Sure. They’re hot right now. In fact, didn’t they play the Super Bowl half-time this year?”
She nodded. “I used to work for them.”
Now it was Bryan’s turn to be shocked. “You? Working for a rock band?”
“I answered an ad on the Internet, and I got a job working on In Tight’s finances—you know, helping to manage the money when they did concert tours, stuff like that.”
Bryan had a hard time picturing Lucy Miller hanging out with wild-haired musicians. Was it possible she was pulling his leg? Was Lucy Miller a pathological liar?
“I did a background check on you,” he said. “There was nothing about—”
“They paid me off the books. They weren’t as famous then. They gave me a place to live, too, so you wouldn’t have found an apartment under my name. I’m just telling you this so you’ll know that I might run into people who would recognize me.”
“We’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He studied her from head to toe, thinking how she could be made to look different—different hair, different eyes. “How would you feel about a makeover?”
He was worried that he’d insulted her, but instead she brightened. “Oh, I’d love one. Can I be a blonde? I think Lindsay Morgan would be a blonde.”
“If you like. My cousin Scarlet is the assistant fashion editor at Charisma magazine. She can bring over a truckload of clothes and cosmetics, hair stuff. Do you need the glasses?”
“Only if I don’t want to run into walls.”
“We’ll get you some contacts. Maybe green ones, though it’s a shame to cover up those pretty blue eyes.”
She looked away, embarrassed. “Don’t tease me. My eyes are a very ordinary shade of blue—almost gray. Boring.”
“I don’t find them boring at all.”
She peeked up at him. “You’re serious.”
Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. He didn’t want Lucy feeling threatened, since she was forced to shack up with him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hit on you. But you do have pretty eyes.”
“Hit on me. Right. So when is the magical transformation going to take place?”
“How about after dinner?”
Bryan showed Lucy to the guest room, which had a private bath. “Where do you sleep?” she asked.
“My room’s upstairs, along with a study. I’ll show you later. My computer’s up there, and if you’re serious about deciphering the data you brought from the bank, you’ll be spending a lot of time at the keyboard.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll leave you to freshen up, then, while I do something about dinner.”
“Okay. Do you have a robe or something I can wear until your cousin brings me some clothes? I don’t really want to put Mrs. Pfluger’s polyester pants back on after my shower. In fact, I’d like to burn them.”
“I’ll bring you something.”
Bryan didn’t actually have a robe, but he found her a pair of pajamas still in the package, a gift from his gram. Every year she gave him pajamas, and he’d never had the nerve to tell her he didn’t wear them.
When he returned to Lucy’s room, the shower was running, the bathroom door open a crack. He felt a less-than-admirable urge to peek inside the bath and see what she looked like without clothes. Ever since she’d fallen on top of him, his imagination had been running wild.
He didn’t, then wondered why he was being so noble. He was a spy, used to peering at other people’s secrets. He set the pajamas on the bed and then went to see about dinner. A quick call downstairs to the restaurant took care of that. Then he had to deal with Scarlet.
“You know I love a makeover challenge,” Scarlet said, warming to the idea right