Page 74 of A Spy is Born
“He just asked me if I’d ever read it. It was small talk. I’d been telling reporters how much I love to read. Spy novels specifically, becauseThe Tempestwas an adaptation.”
“All he did was ask if you’d read it?”
“Yes, but when I got home tonight, there was a bag on my door with a note from him and the book inside.”
“Why didn’t you call me immediately?” His voice has dropped to a dangerous rumble.
“I don’t know, I thought—”
Temperance cuts me off again. “Get out of there now.”
My eyes scan my bedroom, which moments ago felt safe but at Temperance’s words has become a shadowed and dangerous place. “Why?” I ask.
“Just do as I say. Now.”
A sound at my front door sends my heart racing. “Temperance,” I whisper. “I think someone is breaking into my apartment.”
The whine of the lock disengaging closes my throat even as I’m moving to my bedside table, the phone still pressed to my ear.
“I’m on my way,” Temperance says, quick movements evident in the sounds behind him. I leave the connection open but place the phone on my side table as I pick up my gun.
When terrified and in desperate need of my hearing, why does my heart beat so damn loud that it drowns out everything else?
Pulling in a deep breath, I kneel behind my bed, using it to block my body from anyone entering my bedroom. Arms extended on the mattress, I aim my gun at the door.
Archie, in his crate behind me, wakes and snuffles at the bars.
There is no sound from the living room.
I should just wait here.
I’m safe here in my nightshirt and underpants, with my gun and my bed for protection. If I stand up and try to go investigating, I’m just begging to get killed.
Blood rushing in my ears is like the ocean roaring during a hurricane. I can’t hear a damn thing except the pounding heartbeat that caused the internal storm and now Archie’s soft whine of concern.Why are you up in the middle of the night? I kind of have to pee now.
My bedroom door, already slightly ajar, eases open. My shoulders burn and my hands ache with tension as my eyes narrow into a pinpoint on the entryway.
Vladimir Petrov steps into my bedroom, his eyes quickly finding me hunkered on the floor, using the bed as a shield, the gun gripped in my fist.Just shoot him.
But I can’t. He’s so damn alive. And just standing there.
Those sharp blue eyes of his trace from the barrel of the gun down my arms and meet mine. “Angela,” he says, his voice slightly slurred, that thick accent turning my name into something exotic—almost precious.
Oh, his face is…slack on the left side.
His left shoulder is dropping as well.Did I do that to him?
He’s wearing all black—a turtleneck and dark pants making his pale hair and skin that much lighter, those beady blue eyes that much brighter.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice steady.I’m the one with the gun.
A faint smile toys with the right side of his mouth. “I wanted to see you. Did you like my gift?” He steps further into the room—his shoulders are almost as broad as the doorway, his head practically brushing the lintel.
“Stop walking,” I say.
That twisted version of a smile broadens, and he puts his hands up as if to placate me. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then why are you here?”
