Page 173 of Summer Heat
“You don’t mean that, dear.” He extended his elbow.
No time like the present. She had work to do. “Fine.”
Nicola pulled out her powder compact to pat her nose and removed the first, microscopic listening bug she was to plant on David. Slipping it onto her finger, she closed her compact with a tight smile and locked arms with him, dropping the clear plastic listener onto his sleeve.
They boarded and went through the whole routine. The Captain had the face of an old-school Pan Am pilot with a present-day uniform. It wouldn’t surprise her if he was a model hired for the part of charter Captain, and the real captain was in his late fifties with a gut and balding hairline.
The stewardesses made their appearance next, but the chef was who Nic was really interested in. Finally, he said his hellos, talked about his best friends Mario Batalli and Wolfgang Puck, and made his way back somewhere. Hopefully to find me a lobster.
Nic’s phone rang. It was Beth. Nicola stepped aside from David, who made use of the leather seats and flat screen television. Closing the door to the lavatory, she activated the small jammer which would allow her phone to work but block out listening devices. “Hello?”
“Did you call Cash?”
“Tried, no answer.” Nicola picked at her fresh, light pink manicure. It had to last the weekend and wouldn’t if she kept that up.
“I could find him on satellite if you want.”
She couldn’t ask for a better best friend. Or one with more resources. “I don’t want to know where he is. I could guess, but what’s the point.”
“I want to know. Where is he?”
“Probably with Sugar.”
“Ass! You want thermal images? You want to know where she is? Consider it done.”
“Let me re-phrase. Cash is probably fucking Sugar just to prove a point.”
“Oh.” Beth paused. “That sucks. Nothing we’d want to see on thermals. I could just track down his truck. See where it is—”
“Not worth it. He’ll have to pick up the phone when I call in a few hours. I left him the details about when I was to meet up with David. He should be able to lock into the transmitting data from the listening devices. Cash, if nothing else, is a professional. The job’s the job. He’ll work it and move on. I’ll give him my details like I should.”
“Sorry, girl.”
“At least it was fun.”
***
Twenty-two hundred hours. Right on time. Cash held his phone in front of him and glared at it as he walked out of the Granville Bar and Grill, an extra-large meat lover’s pizza balanced on his palm, burning his skin off. No frozen DiGiorno deep dish tonight. If he didn’t have to wait for Nic’s intel dump, there’d be major bar action going down, shot-glass first, to accompany the omnivore overload he had planned.
The phone continued to ring. This was the first time he’d ever hesitated to jump into the action, even if the action was only to receive and document intelligence. Nic had called before she left stateside, and he knew that had nothing to do with hopping on a plane with that dickhead. Nope, it was all about towel boy, but this call was scheduled. It was work. It had to be answered.
He answered her like he would Jared. “Yeah.”
“Hi.” The sweet quietness of her voice made his heart hurt. Damn it. And damn her.
“Do you have an update?” Cash knew his voice was harsh, worse than when he spoke to the guys in the field. There was a definite hint of fuck you.
He balanced the phone against his shoulder, pressed to his ear, and put the pizza on the roof as he unlocked his rig. Click, click. The doors unlocked, and he grabbed the pizza and got in. Two mosquitoes floated in and out of his cab. Maybe he should’ve rolled the windows up before he went inside. Maybe he’d think about anything and everything but how he felt when it came to the angelic voice on the phone.
“Anything to report?” he asked.
“Cash, I—”
“Anything on the job to report?” He put the key in the ignition and turned. Ping. It cha-cha-cha-ed, but didn’t turn over. God, he didn’t have time for this—
Oh, damn.
Nic blabbered something. He didn’t hear it. He wasn’t listening. Cash closed out all the outside noises and replayed the last thirty seconds of his conversation. Blah, blah, blah. Ping.
