Copyright © 2007 Gemma Halliday
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
"Look alive, Maya. Your mark's at twelve o'clock."
I swiveled in my chair, watching the glass doors swing open, and a tall, lean man in a button-down shirt walk in.
I froze. Instantly paralyzed as I followed his progress across the crowded Starbucks toward the barista with the nose piercing and bright red pigtails.
"Oh. Shit." I gulped down the shock that had settled in my throat. "No way."
"Do you have a visual?" my earpiece buzzed. But I scarcely heard it, my entire being focused on him. Those angular features, that dark hair, those unnaturally blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he exchanged banalities with the barista.
No way could it be him.
"Maya? Talk to me, girl. Dark hair, blue jeans, white button down. Tell me you have a visual?"
The sound of panic creeping into Danny's voice in my ear snapped me back to reality. I spun around in my chair, turning my back to the mark, letting my dark hair fall across my face in a lame attempt at staving off recognition.
"Danny, I cannot do this," I whispered into the mic'd ruby broach pinned to the lapels of my low-cut blazer. The file on our mark had said he was partial to corporate types. I'd done my best to dress the part--tailored skirt, slit up the thigh high enough to show off my dedication to the gym, white blouse unbuttoned dangerously low, three-inch stilettos strapped over freshly manicured toes. I was "corporate piece of ass" to a tee.
Only now I realized I could have shown up in a grubby t-shirt, and it wouldn't have made a lick of difference. Goddammit, it could not be him!
"Sure you can, kid," Danny's voice reassured me. "Just breathe. Stick to the script and you'll do fine."
"No, you don't understand. I can't do this with him. He's...." I trailed off, struggling for the words to explain just who he was. I snuck a glance at him through my curtain of hair. He was taking his coffee to a table near the back. A triple shot soy latte. Not that his paper cup looked any different from all the others in the place, but I knew that was his usual order. Or at least, it had been.
He sat down and unfolded a newspaper to the sports section. He crossed one leg casually over the other, leaning back in his chair. Dark stubble dusted his jaw, giving him a rugged look despite the expensive fit of his dress shirt across his wide shoulders. He sipped his coffee, his eyes intent on last night's baseball scores, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was being watched.
For now.
"Not him," I whispered urgently into my lapels. "Danny, this is a mistake. I cannot do this. What about Samantha? Or Caleigh? One of them can run this play."
"The Boss said it was yours."
"I cannot do this, Danny. Not with...him."
"Kid, we've got one shot at this guy. This is it. You're it. Work your magic, girl."
"No, Danny, I—"
But the telltale static click told me he'd already disconnected.