The Elliotts: Bedroom Secrets: Under Deepest Cover

She nodded, unable to speak.

“That was really good for a first time out.”

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, and her heart did a little plonk. She wished he wouldn’t be so nice to her. She wished she wasn’t just a job to him, a responsibility to be taken care of. She wished they’d met some other way, and maybe they could go out on a date like normal people.

Her life was pretty far from normal.

She was sweating like an ox by the time they made it back to Bryan’s building. Instead of going straight up, they swung into Une Nuit. Bryan introduced her to his manager, Stash, a charming man with a French accent who eyed her speculatively as Bryan put together a plate of pastries.

“This the one, eh?” he said.

“This is the one,” Bryan confirmed, flashing a slightly embarrassed smile.

The one? What the heck did that mean?

Lucy looked around the huge commercial kitchen, which appeared to her like a forest of stainless steel, everything impeccably clean and sparkly. Three men and one woman wearing tall chef’s hats bustled around preparing the day’s menu, all joking and laughing in good-natured camaraderie.

This would be a fun place to work, she caught herself thinking. Not like Alliance Trust, where no one cracked a smile or spoke above a whisper, and the only smells were of new carpet and money. Honestly, that place was like a mausoleum.

“You want to see the rest of it?” Bryan asked, apparently noting her interest.

“Oh, yes, please.”

He led her through a wide, swinging, double door into the main dining room, flipping on a couple of light switches as they went. The decor was nothing short of seductive. Low red lighting illuminated the copper-topped tables, which were surrounded by black suede banquettes and armchairs. Tables and booths were tucked away at odd angles in little corners, and she imagined the famous people who ate here enjoyed the sense of privacy.

The floor was black-and-red stone—marble, or maybe something else. Contemporary wrought-iron chandeliers hung here and there, each one different, each one a work of art.

“Wow, this is beautiful. Did you decorate it yourself?”

“No, I hired a design firm. They did my loft, too. I can’t take credit for that. Except some of the artwork.”

“It’s wonderful. Can we eat here some time?” She nearly swooned at the idea of an intimate dinner with Bryan. Since they would be in public, they would have to act like a couple in love. It wouldn’t be too difficult for her.

“You can eat here anytime you like. Stash will take care of you.”

That wasn’t really what she wanted to hear. She wanted Bryan to be the one taking care of her. They could share a plate of crepes stuffed with stir-fry—or whatever exotic thing was on the menu—and feed each other with chopsticks.

Bryan showed her the bar area, which featured smaller tables and less-cushy chairs, for those waiting for a table or just stopping in for a cocktail.

“Downstairs there’s a private dining room, for parties and such. Do you want to see it?”

She glanced at her watch. “I suppose we better get going. I have a lot of work to do on the computer today.”

They went upstairs, showered, then met again in the kitchen to gobble down the French pastries and coffee. Yes, she was going to have to make running a habit.

Hours later Lucy was firmly ensconced in Bryan’s private study, which was upstairs off the master suite. The door had been locked the night Scarlet came over—Lucy had checked the door out of curiosity. But this morning he’d let her in, fired up his computer and put her to work. She had not only the memory stick she’d taken with her when she fled from D.C., but all of the data she’d provided Brian with over the past few weeks. He had been going over it himself, along with some of Homeland Security’s top computer experts, but none of them had been able to figure out who was siphoning money out of the pension funds. The embezzling had been disguised to look like ordinary transactions. Fund managers bought and sold stock and securities all the time. Only by comparing the transactions with the various fund managers’ portfolio profiles could the bogus stock sales be ferreted out.

For the past three hours, Lucy had been going over personal e-mails. She felt terrible for invading her co-workers’ privacy, but Bryan had assured her it was both legal and necessary. The embezzler wasn’t operating in a vacuum. Maybe he wasn’t stupid enough to leave incriminating evidence in an e-mail—but maybe he was.

Bryan had left her alone to attend to his own business. He was checking in with the other agents on his team to see if any progress had been made from their ends. When she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, Lucy was almost giddy at the prospect of seeing him again. She told herself it was only because she was anxious to report what she’d found. But deep down she knew it was more than that. She was forming an unhealthy attachment to her superspy, which was only going to lead to pain and disappointment.

But what could she do? She couldn’t order her emotions to behave. And her hormones were completely out of her control.

Bryan entered the study, and Lucy’s smile died. The strain on his face was obvious. “Bad news?”

“One of the agents on my team is MIA.”

“Oh, no, that’s awful!”

“No one has heard from him in three days.”

“What do you think happened? Where was he the last time you knew?”

“He’s been in France. He infiltrated the bogus charity your embezzler has been funneling money to, and was tracing down wire transfers that matched the amounts we know were stolen from Alliance at certain times. But now he’s vanished. Either he’s blown his cover … or he’s the traitor. But I find that impossible to believe. I’ve worked closely with Stungun on two other missions. I’d have trusted him with my life anyday.”

“Stungun?”

Bryan rolled his eyes. “We all have code names. We don’t know each other’s real names. Not even my superior knows who I am.”

“What are the other agents’ code names?”

“My team consists of me, Stungun, Tarantula and Orchid. Siberia is our control—our boss.”

“It’s okay for you to tell me that?”

He smiled briefly. “We change the code names all the time. I’m Casanova right now, but I’ve been Jackknife, Hustler and Hopper.”

“Hopper?”

He shrugged. “’Cause I’m quick like a rabbit, I guess. I didn’t come up with it.” He sat wearily in a leather office chair. “Have you found anything?”

“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve found out. John Pelton, one of our loan officers, has been downloading porn. Really raunchy stuff. I never would have guessed. Then there’s Cassie Hall and Peter Glass. They’ve apparently been carrying on a torrid affair—and they’re both married to other people! I feel like a pervert, reading their e-mails.”

“Anything pertinent to the case?”

“I’ve been comparing log-ins to the times various illegal transactions were made. It’s painstakingly slow, but I think I might be able to figure out who the culprit is by process of elimination.”

“Any front runners?”

“I’ve been able to eliminate a couple of people. But there are still dozens of candidates. Most people stay logged in all day when they’re at work. Still, it’s a start.”

“Good. Keep at it. There are cold cuts and fruit in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see it was almost two. She’d been so engrossed in solving the puzzle, she’d been oblivious to the passage of time.

“I’m afraid I have more bad news,” he said, his tone positively funereal.

“What? It’s not my family, is it? They haven’t reported me missing or anything, I hope.” She wasn’t in close contact with her parents—she talked to them every couple of weeks. They wouldn’t be worried about her yet.