Romance: Menage Romance: The French Quarter Hostages (Paranormal Action Shapeshifter MFM Bear Shifter Romance) (Fantasy BBW Taboo Interracial Love Triangle Werebear Mates Short Stories) (48 page)

“You did?” he asked stupidly.

“Kind of hard to miss it,” she answered with an eye roll.

“True enough,” he answered. A small smile came to his lips.

“Anyway,” she said looking down and beginning to fidget with her sleeve, “I was wondering. Did you really mean that? What you said about needing help?”

She looked up and her eyes met his. Those blue eyes looked hopeful but guarded. As though she was still not quite sure whether or not she could trust him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I meant that. You were right. I’ve got a problem. I need to sort it out before I do anything else.”

She nodded and moved her eyes back down to the table.

“Because, I was thinking,” she said. “If you’re really going to get sober you’re going to need a lot of support and . . . I was wondering if I could help.”

She looked up at him again. This time, her guard was down and he saw a question light her eyes. She was asking him to take her back.

Chris blinked twice to make sure he understood correctly. After everything he’d done, after the promise that he’d broken, she wanted his forgiveness.

Chris broke out into a smile when he realized there was no question in his mind at all.

“I’d like that,” he said. “I’d love it really.”

He reached across the table and took her hands. As soon as he did, she looked up at him. When she caught his grateful smile, she rewarded him with one of her own.

“I love you,” he said honestly. Her smile widened as she looked back at him.

“That’s lucky,” she said. “Because I love you too.”

As he leaned over to meet his lips with hers, Chris realized that having Michelle was far better than any football career.

THE END

Bonus Story 12 of 20

They had acquired their target, and it was him. Passenger Robert Whitman had thought the Cypriots might put eyes on him after he cleared customs, but they were on him the second he got off the plane at Larnaca Airport. A baggage handler on the jetway followed him up to the non-EU line, where a uniformed agent milled about aimlessly, but always in his vicinity.  The agent at the counter scanned and stamped his passport with a gulp and pushed the document back through the gap in the Plexiglas booth with trembling fingers.  At the baggage claim, Whitman’s luggage appeared on the conveyor only after every other bag had been snatched by its owner, or made several laps around the baggage area. They’d taken a good look inside the suitcase, no doubt, but there was nothing to see.

No one tailed him from baggage claim, but he picked up on a couple of possibles as he made his way to the car rental desk. He wasn’t actively seeking them, but he’d developed some pretty good intuition over the years. He reminded himself that he wasn’t even supposed to look for surveillance on this operation. Well-trained habits die hard, though.

He saw them as he left the parking garage. There were at least three vehicles following him as he headed north and west along Larnaca Bay on the B3. They were matching his speed and attempting to keep an incidental vehicle or two between them and his rearview mirror. The result was a sort of vehicular body language that gave them away to the trained eye.  When he made his turn into the parking lot of the Misty Beach Hotel, one of the suspect vehicles continued past him and the other two turned off into parking lots on either side of the road.

It really was a game this time – a rigged game, and he was on the inside – but the Intelligence Division of the Cyprus Police didn’t know that. They also didn’t know that Robert Whitman wasn’t his real name, or that he didn’t really work for the State Department, or that their surveillance team was itself under surveillance.   All they knew was that the CIA wanted them to keep an eye on him,
if they could handle it
, and to report on anything he did while on the island. They were not supposed to apprehend or engage, just observe and report.  That made Whitman’s job easy; he was just a rabbit leading the dogs around the track.

***

The inland side of the Misty Beach Hotel could have been mistaken for a municipal administration building but for the hotel logo painted onto the clean white cinderblock and the green awning that covered the last few feet of walkway before the entrance.
Not quite like the brochure
, Whitman thought. The tinted glass doors slid open to admit him onto a marble floor that reflected light streaming in from the bay side of the lobby through three story glass walls framed in antique bronze.  Beyond the glass, a swimming pool meandered toward the bay, and beyond that, a beach dotted with umbrellas and sunbathers.

Whitman walked to where the lobby began stepping down to pool level, then turned back toward the plain little reception desk, and the plain blonde woman behind it.

“Hello. Welcome. Checking in?” The blonde’s accent was part British, part Scandinavian. It was interesting, and she was suddenly not so plain. Kind of cute, actually; he put her in her mid-twenties, so probably about 15 years younger than him. 

“Are you sure you’re not a tourist pretending to work here?” He handed her his passport. “You don’t look or sound too Mediterranean to me.”

“Well, you sound very American to me, Mr. Whitman.” She smiled and handed back the passport. “But that’s a good thing.”

“Really? I thought everyone just groaned and slapped their heads when we came around. But back to my original question: Are you sure you’re not some lost Norwegian tourist? ” He gestured toward her lapel. “You don’t even have a name tag.”

Robert Whitman was supposed to be quite the womanizer, and the man playing him was beginning to enjoy the flirtation.  It had been a while, and the blonde’s smile and the tilt of her head gave him a feeling he couldn’t quite identify.

“Swedish, not Norwegian,” she said, “and my name is Pia. I came here as a tourist a few years ago, and I loved it so much that I decided to make it permanent.”

“Fell in love with the sun and the sand?”

“And with a man.” Now she was practically glowing. How had he ever thought of her as plain? 

“I take it he hasn’t broken your heart yet.”

“Oh, I don’t think he ever will.” The best part of her smile was in her blue eyes.  

“How about you, Mr. Whitman? How many hearts have you broken?”

“Me? I don’t break hearts. I take broken-hearted women home and hand them a glass of wine and rub their feet.” 
And then I go on missions, and can’t call or email, and they’re gone when I get home.

“If you just walk around and say that in your sexy American accent, I think you’ll find plenty of feet to rub.”

“Sexy American accent?  Is that really a thing…? I might have to move here, too.”

She slipped two key cards into an envelope marked “319” and handed it to him. “You should probably move into your room first, Mr. Whitman.”

“Please call me ‘Robert,’ Pia; and I have one more question: Where can I get a cheap meal and a beer around here?”

“You might try pub across the street. The fish and chips are excellent, and there will be lots of drunken British girls in uncomfortable shoes.”   

Beautiful
and
funny.  “Why, thank you. That sounds like a fine evening out for a gentleman.”

He turned toward the elevator and his peripheral vision caught movement in the same direction from the lower lobby.  He had to hand it to the Cyprus PD, they were taking their job seriously.

His new shadow arrived at the elevator door in a whiff of coconut sunscreen and an emerald green bikini, the top of which should have been handed down to her little sister long ago, with a sheer white wrap tied around her waist. She seemed a bit young too be working for the local service; at least twenty. Probably older though; he tended to underestimate. Whatever her age, she was clearly there to appeal to the womanizing American who was getting so much attention from the intelligence division.

No surprise that she didn’t need to press the button for another floor.

When the elevator doors opened, he ushered the girl out first and followed as she turned in the direction of his room. As she walked, the hallway lights cast little reflective bands that slid down her black hair as it swayed over her olive skin. She stopped at 317, adjacent to his room and between his room and the exit. As he pulled out his key card, he heard her say, “Looks like we’re neighbors.”

He looked toward her and smiled. “Well, I’ll try to be a good neighbor. Do you like the hotel?”

“Yes, I’ve stayed here a few times. It’s really lovely.” There was no Scandinavian flavoring in her British accent, but her bikini top was interesting in an engineering-the-impossible kind of way.  She walked toward him and extended her hand. “I’m Helen.”

“Of course you are.” He took her hand and held it for a moment while he looked in her eyes. “I hope Paris isn’t too noisy when he comes to steal you away.”

“Does every American read Homer before their Cyprus holiday?”

“Just the smart ones…I’m Robert, by the way.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Robert.”  She turned back toward her room and looked over her shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” The wisp of a wrap around her waist did little to hide the triangle of green fabric below the small of her back which directed his eyes further downward. He wondered how close she was supposed to get to him.

*****

Helen, it turned out, was only responsible for him in the hotel.  She kept showing up like a schoolgirl with a secret crush—at the breakfast bar, in the hotel gym, around the pool, and heading back to the room.  Robert got the feeling that she might be writing, “Mrs. Robert Whitman” over and over in her notebooks.  Joke was on her though, because “Robert Whitman” was just a mash-up of Robert Frost and Walt Whitman that had been approved as an alias for a man whose real passport said he was Kirk Blackwell, and whose military ID said that he was a commander in the United States Navy, and whose dress uniform was pinned with the gold Trident of a Navy SEAL. 

The first full day of Kirk’s mission was limited to enjoying the hotel, interacting with as many people as possible, and taking a little walk around Larnaca Harbor.  Of course, it was all planned down to the minute, and everything was being recorded by the CIA contractors on his team using cameras hidden in beach bags, purses, and backpacks.  Kirk wouldn’t even have noticed them if he hadn’t known exactly where they’d be and when.  The Cyprus PD hadn’t been as discreet, but trailing surveillance was a lot tougher than static counter-surveillance.  They had definitely grilled the clerk at the cell phone kiosk and now had all of the information to track the phone, but that was part of the plan as well.

The next day was longer, but pleasant.  Kirk couldn’t complain about being paid to tour Cyprus, buy souvenirs, and engage as many people as possible in conversation. He did his best to ignore surveillance, but saw and felt it each step of the way.  They were in his rearview mirror up to Nicosia, and with him through the pedestrian area and down past the U.S. and Russian Embassies.  As he drove out of town and headed toward Limassol, they were in his mirror again, though much farther back—likely because he was also being watched from the air. 

Limassol would be the last little test for the Intelligence Division of the Cyprus Police, but it hinged on Kirk being able to bump into an unwitting American tourist staying at the Mediterranean Plaza Hotel.  The CIA Chief of Mission at the U.S. Embassy had told the police that they could talk to anyone they saw their target contact. If that included any suspicious contacts with other Americans, then those persons could be brought to the Embassy for questioning. There was no wrong answer other than failing to report the contact at all, and all indications were that the Cyrus PD would at least talk to anyone Kirk bumped into.

He parked his rental car at a supermarket a block from the hotel and went in for a bottle of water.  One of his teammates was shopping the produce aisle, a signal that the team was ready to steer him to the bump; so he checked out with the water and set off on foot for the hotel.  He walked east on the inland side of the B1, trying to ignore the cameras he knew were looking toward him from bags at a bus stop, a diner, and a sidewalk café. When he finally crossed toward the hotel, his peripheral vision picked up at least three shadows at various distances. One passed behind him, one paralleled his crossing one block back, and one sat down in an apartment stairwell to make a phone call.

The Plaza had plush landscaping around its semicircular driveway and a more modern edifice than the Misty Beach, but the interior layout was almost exactly the same, though on a slightly larger scale. A tourist at the concierge desk scratched his head, elbow pointing toward the pool/beach exit, so Kirk continued that direction, winding his way around the hourglass pool and toward the beach as he looked for the next signal.

As he passed the through the gateway of palm and hibiscus that separated the pool area and the beach, he spotted a familiar figure fifty meters down the beach.  She was walking toward him but paused by an empty beach chair, hand on hip, and then turned toward the water.  It was Nikki. Her skimpy two-piece was going to be a topic of conversation around the table back at the safe house.  Kirk imagined that she was working hard to keep from breaking into a gigantic grin. The slim Dominican had an easy smile and an even easier manner.  She was everyone’s first choice as a travel companion, but the team’s deputy commander pretty much monopolized her. The running joke in the house was that Kirk was madly in lust with her.

The chair where Nikki had paused belonged to the target, and Kirk turned his eyes to where Nikki was looking and spotted the American woman who was his target. He had only seen a grainy passport photo of her, but her body language gave her away. She was trying to be nonchalantly topless like so many of the European tourists on the beach, but her arms kept creeping up to cover her breasts. She also didn’t appear too comfortable with the skimpiness of her swimsuit bottom, but she was putting on a brave face for her fellow sunbathers, so comfortable in their own skins. She knelt to splash water on her arms and shoulders then stood and pushed back a strand of dark hair that had fallen over her nose.

Kirk new that he was going to take some ribbing from the team over this tough assignment to talk to a topless American woman on the beach, especially since the team knew he had at least a slight preference for brunettes.  She was walking back toward her beach chair now, her arms still a bit indecisive and her black hair brushing just where the straps to her missing top would be.  Kirk decided that he would let her get there before he approached so she would have an opportunity to cover herself, but she immediately reclined and put a t-shirt over her eyes.

Well, this is going to be uncomfortable for both of us…
He walked directly but slowly toward her, trying to figure out an icebreaker that might make him seem like a bit less of a creep.

Hey, I like your tan lines…! Nice bikini wax...! Where’d you get that swimsuit...? Need someone to shade your eyes...? How about your breasts?