“None needed. I’m told your group is very unique and moments of unusual activity should be expected.” Wyatt held his hands tight in front, his body still but not at rest.
“True. But it’s odd that I have the problems.” She held a hand to her heart.
Wyatt nodded. From behind her, Lily pressed a hand into Charley’s back.
“Let me introduce us,” Charley said. “My name is Charley Randall,”
“Wyatt Moreland.” His hand reached and Charley snatched the opportunity to shake it, sliding her palm against his. “I’m a Senior Field Agent for the Counterintelligence and Foreign Law Enforcement Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Whoa! That’s a mouthful,” James said as Cael snickered and broke from his uber-professional mold.
Charley’s heart thudded against her chest as Wyatt smiled. It pounded harder when the grin reached the corners of his eyes. She wanted to jump up and down like a giddy school girl who’d found out the popular boy might, maybe, like her.
She kept the motion hidden. “And it’s you who’s asked us here?”
“Yes.” Wyatt’s ringless hand motioned toward the house. “Shall we? I think this conversation is better suited for a more private place.”
Cael nodded, his head inclined toward the house. “I agree.”
Wyatt took the lead, his long legs stepping wider than hers, gait controlled and firm. Charley itched to grab and hold on forever.
“You’ll get your chance,” Lily whispered into Charley’s ear before she moved in front. Lily’s two crossed fingers behind her back brought a curve to Charley’s lips.
The four of them followed, up six granite steps to the front entrance.
“Sheila McGowan. Please come in.” The woman offered each of them a handshake as they entered. Once through, she led the way through a short foyer. Her skirt zip-zipped as she scooted to the front while her heels clacked against the hardwoods.
“She’s a bit severe, don’t you think?” James snickered to Charley.
She stifled a laugh.
High ceilings overdramatized the foyer’s size. Antiques graced miniature shelves at random intervals. They followed Wyatt into a room dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun, through the two layers of glass, warmed, and the jewel tones in the paint and accessories accentuated it.
Sheila motioned them to sit. Charley found a spot on a Victorian chaise with Lily next to her. James slouched into a padded recliner, and Cael, in his standard-issue FBI uniform, positioned himself in a side armchair.
Wyatt sat opposite them, and like Cael’s, his posture remained stiff and controlled.
Sheila pulled folders from a briefcase she’d picked up from an antique buffet they’d passed.
“Ms. McGowan-” Charley began.
“Please, call me Sheila.”
Charley cocked her head.
Sheila laid her hands on the items in her lap, crossed and uncrossed her ankles.
Sheila broke her stare, turning to each of them and pointing toward folders within their reach. “Please, take a moment to look at the information I’ve provided. Ms. Randall? I think that which you are looking for is in there.”
Charley drew the government-issued, navy-blue folder from the table. As she opened her copy, Cael let out a low whistle. Mr. I’m-at-work had broken his facade again. Charley stifled her laugh but smiled; she’d rib him about it later.
She pointed to a photo. “Who’s this?”
“The page to its left will explain everything,” Sheila said.
“Okay, but I’d like to hear your perspective while I read it.” Charley’s tone bordered on exasperation, though it came from long suppressed emotional frustration.
“Sheila, if you’d please give Charley the rundown on the situation, that would help… considerably,” James said.
Charley knew he did it to soften Sheila as her own gruff response couldn’t.
Sheila stiffened. “Absolutely. I’m sorry. I was told Ms. Randall preferred to read and then ask her own questions.” Sheila proceeded with details in a clipped recitation.
Charley stood before she finished and ran her hands through her hair. She needed the movement to prevent another mental meltdown. Her group would ignore her as she paced the room, but she assumed Sheila and Wyatt would watch her every move.
She’d kept the height but changed the hair. Gone were the enhancements she’d added before. Her eyes took on a golden brown.
“Ms. Randall…” Sheila began, but James signaled silence with a finger to his lips.
Charley’s need to move diminished. As she passed Wyatt on her first round, she noted the strength of his shoulders-how their width made her want to touch them, to run her hands along their plane. She drew her hands into fists at her sides and released. Repeated.
She hustled away from Wyatt before she came to rest in her original spot.
“Okay. Now.” Charley’s hair fell from her clip.
Wyatt’s head shifted as his gaze stayed on her.
She shook the thought away. “What you’re asking isn’t a mind-boggling activity. It’s a search for information. Go in and get the details, get out. End of story. What isn’t written in your FAQs?” Charley pointed back toward the folders they held. “Please tell me why you need me for this.”
“Because we were told you can look and act the part.” Sheila’s eyes exclaimed their disbelief.
“Riiiiiight.” Charley leaned against the back of a chair. “Because I’m the only woman in the FBI who can pole dance?”
9
How she’d look the part, Wyatt didn’t know. He gauged her height at no more than five foot eight at best. As she’d walked, he’d watched. Long legs took strides twice the length he’d expected, and stirred memories he couldn’t find. Puzzles like her had pushed him to the FBI.
“Go on.” Charley jerked him from his thoughts.
The cadence of her voice drew him in. He couldn’t place her origin-a skill for which he’d become known in his eleven years; hers had a unique pace.
Sheila cleared her throat, but Wyatt retook control. “I’ll take it from here, Sheila.” He nodded.
She returned the same.
“We’ve managed to gather some intelligence already, through Candie.”
James smirked. “The skivvy-dressed blonde in the photo?”
“Yes.” Wyatt’s own grin snuck through, though he’d tried to refrain. Candie, as he knew, had a reputation as a busy-body. Luckily for him, he’d been in her circle when she blabbed. “She’s a dancer… in a club.”
“Where?” James asked.
“Montreal.”
“Out of your jurisdiction,” Charley said.
“Yes.” Wyatt stared into her eyes before shifting his own away.
