Page 36 of Misadventures with a Duke

The friend, who brings a smirk to match her open audacity with Logan, wears a crimson knitted cap atop black hair that resembles a monk’s blunt tonsure. Perhaps it is, considering the strictness of her overall stature. Despite the coiffure—or perhaps, in some strange ways, because of it—she reminds me somewhat of that little fellow Napoleon, without his nervous twitches. Her attire is similar, with a dark-blue jacket buttoned down to her knees and shiny black boots covering the rest.

“Senior Special Agent Lautrec, FBI,” she states, flipping open a small leather case to show a shield-shaped medallion for all of two seconds. “And this is my partner, Agent Degas.”

Logan snorts as the women resettle their postures. “Lautrec and Degas?” He escalates to a chuckle. “Is this a joke?”

Female Napoleon tilts her head. The cap stays perfectly in place. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“And you’re FBI?” Skepticism glinting even brighter in the detective’s eyes. “No disrespect intended. I’m simply confused. You don’t look—”

“Right. Because we’re supposed to pass for ad execs even when undercover. Dude, if we put a buck in a jar every time we got that…”

“My bad,” Logan mutters. “But begging your pardon again, and all things media mob being considered, why are you here? We’ve yet to determine if this altercation is a two-country concern or a misunderstanding on both sides.”

“Misunderstanding? You’ve got that much right.” Again, the cap is uncannily secure as she swings her head the other way. “And moreover, should be damn glad you all aren’t facing group and individual charges right now.”

“Damn. Cool the rocket fuel.” He darts a nervous glance my way. The stress doubles before he turns back to Lautrec and Degas. Though he is far from trusting them, I am of a different mind.

Those are solid names. They connotate nobility. But even before Kavia and her sorcery propelled me into this insanity, nobility was becoming a tarnished word. An honor no more substantive than dried ink on parchment. Paper that could easily be burned…

Logan grunts with enough frustration for us both. “Once again, with all due respect, why wasn’t anyone on my team informed about this? I would usually be called at once if the FBI had been—”

“Well, of course you would’ve been,” my gorgeous not-Magique cuts in. “If we were following normal procedure.”

Logan finally gets his full grimace. “And this time you’re not?”

She scrunches up her nose, which causes adorable distortions to her freckles, until she looks more awkward than the Queen Consort at the Grand Couvert dinner. But something tells me this gaffe will not simply add up to the king’s displeasure.

“Ermmm…no. I mean, we’re not. We’re definitely not.” Once more, her intrepid friend is the situational savior. “I mean, isn’t that obvious?”

“Obvious?” Logan double-takes. “Ohhh, shit. Is this a covert op?”

“Errr…yes. Exactly. Very covert.” Little Napoleon almost overcompensates by wrapping a possessive hand around the back of my bicep. “I mean, that’s why we were stunned too. We thought you at least knew who this was.”

“Holy shit,” Logan growls. “So that’s the scutts on the informational duck-and-dodge?”

“Shit. Sorry. We really thought you knew, man.”

Logan snaps around, stabbing me with a glare. “Damn it, De Leon—or whoever you are. You couldn’t have pulled out the special handshake for the dog in the trenches here? Some subtle heads-up at all?”

Two seconds of a glance from the green eyes that have hardly veered from me, and my instincts take over. The same instinct that tells me where to look for foxes in trees and spies at court has leapt to high alert, ordering me to go along with this ruse despite only comprehending every third or fourth word of it.

“Mon ami…secret handshakes are only possible if one has hands to use, oui?”

“Crap.” Logan motions at the guard standing closest to us, already motioning toward my back with a firm sweep of his closed journal. “Sorry about the crossed wires, man,” he offers while the officer frees me. “But tell the gang at Federal Plaza to shoot the prairie dog a little higher with the next op at this level. Then nobody ends up looking like an idiot.”

The redhead between us smiles with entrancing serenity. The expression scatters her freckles into new patterns and turns her mouth into the definition of elegance. “But sometimes it’s called infiltration for a reason, Detective.”

“Well-played, Agent Degas.” Logan shakes his head while returning his tablet to its interior pocket. “So how can I help you further? Do you need to give a debrief to anyone here? We ordered the Consul General and his staff to lock their doors and stay put, but I can have reception call them now if—”

“Thank you, but not necessary. As you can surmise, it’s probably best that we salvage and sanitize whatever we can. That’s best done elsewhere.”

“Of course.” He pivots around, indicating to the uniforms that they can return to their posts, which they answer with scuffing reluctance.

I glower, barely refraining from adding on more. No men on any of my patrols, at Versailles or elsewhere, would be so insouciant. Logan nods at my two gorgeous rescuers.

“Can I get your numbers and emails,” he asks, “in case I need any other details for my report?”

I hope I am the only one who notices how pale both the females turn. If Logan does too, I am certain no one will know it. The gentleman is fluent in the language of self-composure. The next moment, I am certain Little Napoleon attended the same subterfuge school.