“Like I’d miss a toothache,” he told her sweetly.
“Perfect. Just as I’d hoped. Now, straight to business.” She set aside the backpack, and covertly pulled her earpiece from her ear now that they were all together and there was no need for alternative forms of communication. Then she waited until he and Dan followed suit. With a sleight of hand, the two of them tucked the little devices into their hip pockets. Chelsea deposited hers into a side pouch of her satchel and opened the menu the waiter had placed at her seat, saying conversationally, “I have Ozzie doing his magic with the hotel registry.”
The “magic” she referred to was Ethan “Ozzie” Sykes’s utter genius when it came to all things technological. If it was connected to the Internet, Ozzie could hack into it, fry it, or serve it up with a side salad. “He’s trying to figure out which room our friend is in,” she continued, her eyes skating down the menu. “Once he does, he’s going to see if he can book us into a room adjacent and…”
She trailed off, then whistled and lowered the leather folio that listed the five-star hotel’s culinary choices. Glancing at Zoelner, she pointed at the menu. “I hope you’re paying. My expense account gets maxed out at Mickey D’s.”
“Oh, sure.” He nodded, then shook his head. “You forget I used to have one of those expense accounts. And if I recall correctly, its upper spending limit was the equivalent of a small country’s GDP.” The Central Intelligence Agency was in the business of buying off warlords, cartels, and regimes. One meal wasn’t going to bust its budget.
Dan leaned over to whisper in Penni’s ear, and Zoelner suspected he was explaining Chelsea’s situation and credentials to her. Of course, the way Penni flushed bright red at his nearness, the dude might as well have been whispering sweet nothings while nibbling on her earlobe.
And on the subject of nearness and sweetness…Chelsea’s proximity and her damned perfume were driving Zoelner insane. He quietly, covertly scooted his chair away from her.
“Just the same,” Chelsea said. “This is one meal where I won’t insist we go dutch. What’s that? What are you doing?” She frowned at him, glancing at the space separating their seats.
Busted. So much for covert. Maybe he should have his spy license taken away. Oh, right. Spies didn’t have licenses.
“I…uh…” He looked at her like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Her frown deepened although her golden eyes continued to sparkle with mischief and life. They were killer, those eyes of hers. An exotic contrast to her café au lait skin and pitch-black pixie-cut hair. Her mixed heritage meant that her coloring was both striking and unique. So much so that most people stopped in their tracks to stare when she walked by.
Oh, sure, she tried to hide it all behind a professional demeanor and black-framed glasses. But it was like trying to hide a sparkling crystal vase under a cocktail napkin.
She pushed her glasses up her cute nose and narrowed her eyes at him. “Well?” she demanded when he just continued to sit there, mouth slung open so wide he was surprised he wasn’t attracting flies.
“Uh…” he said again, like the true genius he was.
She tsked and shook her head. “What’s with you? Did you take an awkward pill this morning or what?”
And if Dan thought Penni was subject to bouts of sassiness, then Special Agent Chelsea Duvall was queen of the condition. The woman wore her attitude like a fashion statement. Luckily, Zoelner was saved from having to come up with a witty rejoinder to the awkward pill question—FYI, he didn’t have one—when Chelsea looked at her watch and cursed.
“Sorry, guys. I need a second.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out her phone. Glancing at the screen, she groaned.
Zoelner saw the missed call and couldn’t resist taunting her with, “Oooh, you’re in so much trouble.”
“Shut it, Saturday Night Fever,” she scolded him.
His chin jerked back. “Saturday Night Fever? What the hell are you talking about?”
She lifted a brow at the jacket he’d hung over the back of his chair. “If the lapels on that thing were any wider, you could fly away on them.”
He glanced at his new leather coat and frowned. He’d bought it off a street vendor two weeks ago in La Paz. He’d thought it was pretty cool, kind of retro. But now every time he wore it, he was going to think of John Travolta.
He scowled over at Chelsea and realized from the devilish glint in her eye that had been her plan all along. Racking his brain, he tried to come up with a pithy reply. But he was saved from the effort when the sound of Dolly Parton singing “9 to 5” jangled from Chelsea’s phone.