Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) Page 3

  He closed the door to her suite behind him and opened his, heading straight to the bedroom. From its wide, double-hung windows, he had a view of the entire backyard. He dropped his suitcase on the king-sized bed and peered through the lace curtains.

  It didn’t take great observational powers to see that Isabelle was, indeed, good with the children. She stood on the side of the pool, her head tipped to one side, nodding occasionally, her dark ponytail sweeping one bare shoulder while she absorbed whatever Beth was explaining to her. He couldn’t help but grin. It took a special kind of patience to listen to the bossy seven-year-old’s long-winded and often roundabout stories.

  She started to laugh at whatever Beth was saying to her. A wide, genuine smile transformed her face from average to something astonishing, revealing yet another one of her startling layers.

  He let the curtain drop back into place.

  No matter which way he tried to wrap his head around it, he couldn’t figure out what her ultimate game was. Either she was innocent of any wrongdoing and her life totally sucked, or she was as deep in the cesspool as her father. He wished he believed it was the former, but he couldn’t get past her attempt to sell that passport. She’d known what she was doing. If he hadn’t caught on to what she was up to that night, she’d have succeeded. A part of him regretted not getting a chance to witness the performance she’d planned to put on at the Embassy.

  He changed into his swim trunks and grabbed a pool towel from the linen closet in his bathroom, then headed downstairs and into the family room. He could hear Peter in his den at the front of the house, talking on the phone. He eased open the screen on the sliding patio door and walked to the edge of the pool.

  Within seconds, he had what seemed like a horde of screaming children hanging off his arms and legs, clinging like burrs.

  “Did you guys multiply or something while I was inside?” he asked, grabbing Kiefer around the waist with one arm and flipping him upside down so that his chubby legs flailed in the air. “Because when I left, there were only three of you. Now there’s got to be at least fifty.”

  “There’s still only three of us,” Chelsea assured him, her green eyes wide and serious. “Four, if we count Izzy.”

  He set Kiefer on his feet and glanced Isabelle’s way. She was treading water in the deep end, sunlight glinting off her wet hair. He raised his eyebrows. “Izzy, huh?”

  “Isabelle is a bit of a mouthful for young children. Peter and Cheryl have no problem pronouncing the unabridged version. You haven’t had any trouble so far, either.”

  In other words, Don’t call me Izzy.

  He wasn’t normally a difficult person. He got most of his informants to open up to him by being the “good” cop, not the bad one. Women usually liked him. He liked them, too. But there was something about Isabelle and her quiet, unflappable nature that made him want to shake all that calm. The last time he’d had the urge to be a jerk with a girl had been in the second grade. He’d had a huge crush on a cute blonde in the third row who didn’t know he existed.

  Since he wasn’t eight years old anymore, and he couldn’t put gum in her hair, that left calling her Izzy—but when the timing was right.

  Right now was about having fun.

  * * *

  “Last one in the pool is a floater,” Garrett said.

  Isabelle watched him make a show of running for the diving board, giving the kids plenty of time to beat him into the water, then cannonball off the end. She scrambled for refuge in the shallow end, beating the peak of the tsunami he created by a matter of seconds. The girls clung to the sides of the pool, spluttering in the aftermath, having been buried in the crest.

  Kiefer bobbed nearby, his chin bouncing in and out of the water. “You the floater, Uncle Garrett,” he shouted.

  “This explains so much.” Isabelle started for the ladder. “Peter’s going to have to refill the pool.”

  Since Garrett planned to play with the children, she might as well watch from the sidelines and enjoy the sunshine. Besides, he made her nervous. She worried too much about saying the wrong thing around him—which meant eventually, she would.

  But she’d been thinking. If he was investigating her father, he might have information she sorely needed to hear. She’d never gone so many months without hearing from him. She had to know if he was at least still alive. She reminded herself daily that it would take some time for him to track her down. She didn’t want to think about what it might mean if he never showed up, or what she would do if he didn’t.

  Somewhere, locked in her memories of her childhood, were tiny slivers of sadness attached to a mother whose face she could no longer remember. Once a year, until she was six or seven, she and her father would travel to a churchyard outside of Montreal and stand, hand in hand, at her grave. As much as she’d hated those trips, the thought of never knowing what had happened to her father was ten times worse.

  If Garrett had information about him—any at all—she wanted to know.

  She dried off with a towel and applied sunscreen, then settled into a padded lounge chair, determined to set her worries about both her father, and Garrett’s sudden appearance, aside. She slid her sunglasses in place and closed her eyes, listening carefully to the children’s voices so she’d know they were all accounted for. Even though she was certain their uncle could be trusted to watch them, she was the one who’d been hired as their caregiver. And she was fond of them.

  A shadow passed over her, lingered for a few seconds, then she heard the scraping of the lounge chair next to hers being dragged across concrete, closer, and the creaks it made as it took a man’s weight. Feigning sleep was tempting, but with no adult in the water to watch over the children, she didn’t dare. She’d have to talk to Garrett eventually. It might as well be now.

  She raised her lounge chair into an upright position. He was sitting on the edge of his, facing her. He’d combed his fingers through his short, damp hair, making it spike straight up in front. Dressed in navy board shorts, and in bare feet, she had to admit he wasn’t quite as intimidating as he’d been in Bangkok. At least, not in the same way. He seemed much more relaxed.

  She couldn’t say the same about herself. In Bangkok, she’d been so wrapped up in her own situation she hadn’t noticed much about him other than that he was a spy. She noticed more now. A killer smile spread all the way to his eyes, creating long, curved creases to embrace his mouth like a hug and reveal straight white teeth that must have cost his parents a fortune. The bent nose kept him from looking too pretty. It was his air of quiet confidence, however, that really set him apart. Garrett Downing was the kind of quick and efficient man who got things done—long before anyone noticed they needed doing. Isabelle would be lying if she said she didn’t find him attractive. Most women would.

  But he made her nervous. She struggled to think of something to say.

  “I wanted to thank you again for your help in getting me out of Thailand,” she said. “And for finding me work. The Mansfords are nice people.”

  “They are,” he agreed. “But there’s no need to thank me. You got this job all on your own.”

  If he hadn’t asked Peter to hire her, then why was she here?

  Disappointment, as dizzying as it was unexpected, hit her hard. She’d pinned too much hope on his interest in her father, believing that meant her father might still be alive. In fact, Garrett might not be CSIS at all. He might be exactly what he’d claimed to be in Thailand—a Canadian diplomat. One who had good observational skills, a conscience, and terrible taste in clothes. Behind the dark lenses she wore, she blinked back tears.

  “Isabelle? Is something wrong?”

  He was watching her, a slight frown in his eyes, trying to read her. She turned her head so she was facing the pool. She didn’t want him or anyone else to know how afraid she was. “I was trying to figure out how long it will take me to save enough money to pay you back for the plane ticket and the hotel.”

  “And I told you b
efore, there’s no need. You never asked for my help. I gave it.” Those perfect white teeth made another brief appearance. “In fact, if I remember correctly, I insisted.”

  Isabelle had met plenty of generous people, from all walks of life, over the years. She’d met an equal amount whose only interest was in helping themselves. She supposed she fit somewhere in between, along with the majority of the world. It didn’t matter where he fit. She’d learned long ago that everyone’s generosity had limitations—and showing signs of dependence or weakness was like pouring buckets of chum into shark-infested waters. Garrett had done too much for her to leave her with no obligation to him.

  “I—” she began, when Kiefer called out to her.

  “Izzy! Look at me!”

  The three-year-old balanced precariously on one of the pool floats in the shallow end, his little arms out to the sides as he wobbled back and forth.

  Isabelle shot to her feet at the same time as Garrett. “I see you monsieur, and you know the rules. No standing on pool toys. It is very dangerous.”

  She started forward, afraid he might fall and hit his head on the edge of the pool, but then Beth, always the bossy big sister, paddled up beside him, stood, and held up her hands.

  “Off,” she commanded. He leaped into her arms, taking them both under water. They resurfaced, giggling, and disaster was successfully averted.

  Isabelle turned back to her chair and came forehead-to-chin with Garrett. He cupped her elbow to steady her, his fingers warm and firm. She had to tilt her head to look at him. He smelled of chlorine and sun-heated man, and as one solid thigh brushed against hers, her stomach made a queer little leap. She was thankful she wore sunglasses so he couldn’t see her thoughts.

  “The children like you,” he said.

  Isabelle found her voice, although it came out huskier than usual. “I like them, too.”

  He kept his hand on her elbow. The pad of his thumb shifted, sliding upward in an absent caress. “Do you also like living here?”

  “The Mansfords are wonderful people.”

  “They are.” The killer smile disappeared. “It means a lot to my sister to have someone reliable caring for her children. It does to me, too.”

  She got the message. He didn’t trust her. While Isabelle understood, she resented him feeling the need to point it out.

  “I only sell passports,” she said. “The market for small children is too problematic. Speaking of passports,” she added, as a new thought occurred to her, “when do I get mine back?” If he wasn’t CSIS, then he had no reason to hold it. She hadn’t committed any crime—or to more accurately state it, she hadn’t completed committing one.

  He made a show of surprise. “You mean you don’t have it?”

  She wasn’t buying his act. “Your RCMP friend took it from me at the airport.”

  “You must be mistaken.” Garrett dropped his hand from her arm and put a few paces between them. “My friend met you at the airport as a favor to me. The police would have no reason to take your passport from you.”

  She frowned at him. “This isn’t funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be. Why do you need it, anyway? Are you planning a trip? Or don’t Cheryl and Peter pay you enough and you’re planning to sell it again?”

  He was up to something. If he wouldn’t return it, it was because he had a good reason not to. The only one she could think of was her father. Some of her earlier fear slid away. Hope eased into its place. “I want it because it’s mine.”

  He studied her. She could almost see him choosing the right words.

  “And I want to be able to sleep,” he finally said, “knowing that my sister’s new employee, who she trusts with her children, isn’t going to sneak off in the middle of the night with the family silverware. Can you offer me a better guarantee that you won’t?”

  She couldn’t.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He strode off to rejoin his nieces and nephew in the water, leaving her with a better understanding of what the limits to his generosity toward her were.

  Even if she wasn’t as certain of his game.

  Chapter Three

  Garrett had missed the mark on the fun part of his plan for getting to know Isabelle better. But she’d brought up the passport and Thailand, not him.

  He leaned out of his lawn chair and took another beer from the cooler. Life, at the moment, was good. The fresh-mowed carpet of grass was soft and cool beneath his bare feet. Steak and smoked salmon were on the menu for dinner, and already, his mouth watered.

  The men had taken charge of the barbecue, which mostly involved drinking beer while they waited for the grill to heat. Isabelle was in the kitchen tossing a salad. The girls were helping her. Kiefer played in a sandbox nearby, and Cheryl had called to say she’d be a few minutes late, but was bringing dessert. He’d bet money it was chocolate cheesecake. That was his favorite.

  At the end of the day, there was nothing Garrett liked better than kicking back and relaxing in the countryside with his sister and her family. Cheryl and Peter both had busy careers, but they knew what was important in life. Their kids came first.

  “Now do you believe me?” Peter asked, taking a swig of his beer. “She’s completely normal.”

  “Yeah?” Garrett twisted the cap off his bottle and tossed it onto the glass-and-wrought-iron table with the others. Do you think it’s completely normal that a twenty-four-year old woman has absolutely no friends or family to speak of?”

  “No,” Peter said. “But I do think it’s none of my business. We both know not everyone in the world was raised by June and Ward Cleaver.”

  “True. But no one normal goes through life without making friends. She’s a pretty woman. Why isn’t there a boyfriend somewhere?”

  “You’re not a bad-looking guy. Why no girlfriend?”

  “Who says there isn’t?”

  “Is there?”

  “No,” Garrett admitted. “Women usually take issue with my lifestyle at some point.”

  Peter leaned back in his lawn chair, stretching his legs. “I can’t imagine why a woman would object to you heading off for parts unknown, for months at a time, without any explanation.”

  “I know. Unreasonable, right?” Garrett picked at the bottle’s label with his thumbnail. “Does she seem at all worried to you? Upset about anything?”

  “Not in the least.”

  That wasn’t the impression Garrett had received earlier. When he’d told her she’d gotten this job on her own, rather than pleased, she’d almost seemed devastated. Then, when he’d refused to give back her passport, she’d looked relieved. Something worried her. Something big. But he’d be damned if he could figure out what.

  Good cop, he reminded himself. He’d missed the mark on that today, too.

  “Any ideas on ways I can spend time with her without the rugrats underfoot?” Garrett asked. “I mean, I love them, you know I do. But I’ve got to work while I’m here.”

  Peter was the only one in the family who could say for certain that Garrett was with CSIS, and only because CSIS was accountable to various government departments, one of which Peter watchdogged. He had no idea what Garrett’s work entailed, however, and knew better than to ask.

  Peter frowned at his beer. “She runs before Cheryl leaves for the city in the mornings, and I haven’t been crazy about her going alone. For someone who’s lived in Africa, she doesn’t seem to have a good grasp of the potential for danger from wild animals. We’ve had coyotes around the farm. You could start running with her. I have a pair of shoes still in the box you can use. I’ll tell her I insist, if you want.”

  More news he didn’t like. He’d seen a few Eastern coyotes, so he understood Peter’s concern, and it was valid. Part wolf, they could grow to weigh seventy-five pounds or more. While most were opportunists and scavengers, like their Western coyote cousins, too many had exhibited wolf-like hunting behavior to be dismissed as harmless. There’d been at least one death in the pro
vince attributed to them. “Why haven’t you been running with her if it isn’t safe?”

  “I haven’t been home very much since she’s been here. When I am, she’s a little jumpy around me,” Peter said. “I didn’t want to push the issue. A few of the guys on the farm have taken dogs into the woods and they haven’t found any dens, so it’s not a huge worry. Just a concern.”

  The thought of running, especially early in the morning, held little appeal. Given a choice, Garrett would take weightlifting and swimming. Running wouldn’t give them much time to talk, but since Isabelle wasn’t proving to be much of a talker anyway, he could use the opportunity to build trust instead. It was better than nothing. “Please tell me she isn’t a long-distance marathoner.”

  Peter tipped his beer bottle at him, a faint smirk on his face. “Let’s just say if it comes to a race, she’s not the one who’s going to have to worry about coyotes.”

  “Hey there, little brother!”

  Garrett half turned at the interruption. Cheryl tottered across the grass toward him, a glass of red wine held high in one hand. He tried not to laugh. She hadn’t changed out of her office clothes yet, and crossing the lawn in those high heels had to be tricky.

  Thirty-seven years old, she was as pretty and bubbly as ever. Her eyes were the same color as his, and so was her hair, although she’d added blonde highlights to hers. No one who met them had ever missed the fact they were siblings, but where Garrett was broad and muscular, she was petite, almost delicate—living proof that appearances could be deceiving. According to the papers she was a shark in the courtroom, and he had more than thirty years’ worth of firsthand experience as to how determined she could be. It was no secret in the family as to who her eldest daughter got her bossiness from.