Time to move on.
If only her past would stop interfering.
What did Agent Dawson want today of all days? Annoyance lined her brow. When ever he showed up like this it could only mean a ripple in her agenda. She couldn’t change her current plans. It had taken too long for her to work up the courage and enthusiasm to make them.
Her irritation mounting unreasonably, her attention shifted slightly. To the man standing next to Dawson. Another secret agent, no doubt. The guy could have been a car bon copy of Dawson from the neck down, great suit, navy in color, spit and polished black leather shoes. The only characteristics that differentiated the two were age and hair color.
Well, okay, that was an exaggeration, the two looked nothing alike. Dawson was fifty or so, distinguished-looking, with a sparkling personality. He’d never performed field duty for the CIA, was more the “office” type. The other guy looked younger, late-thirties maybe, handsome in a rugged sort of way, and his expression resembled that of a slick gangster. At least what she could see of it with him wearing those dark shades. The five o’clock shadow on his lean jaw didn’t help. Her gaze lingered there a moment longer. Something about his profile…his mouth seemed familiar.
She rarely forgot a face, and this one made her nervous. She looked away, settling her gaze back on Dawson and the kind of familiarity she could trust. Maybe she had run into the other man before. But that didn’t seem likely since her dealings with the CIA had always come through David or Agent Dawson, discounting her rare command performance with the director him self. A frown nagged at her brow. It was doubtful that she knew the other man, yet something about him seriously intimidated her. Not a good thing in a CIA agent, to her way of thinking.
But then, what did she know? She was only a part-time volunteer agent whose existence was strictly off any official records. And she hadn’t even been subjected to the training program. Calling herself an agent was a stretch. She actually had no dealings what so ever with the CIA other than performing the occasional professional service for which she refused to accept pay. To date, she had provided new faces for more than a dozen deep-cover operatives. It was the least she could do for her country—why would she allow payment for services rendered? Elizabeth saw it as her patriotic duty. The covert sideline was her one secret…her one departure from the dull routine of being Dr. Elizabeth Cameron.
“Dr. Cameron,” Dawson said when she made no move to come closer, “the director would like to see you.”
Elizabeth hiked her purse strap a little farther up her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m going on vacation, Agent Dawson,” she said firmly as she ordered her feet to move to ward her car. It was her car, after all; he couldn’t keep her from getting in it and driving away. At least she didn’t think he could.
“The meeting will only take a few minutes, ma’am,” Dawson assured quietly while his cohort stood by, ominously silent, doing the intimidation thing.
She considered asking Craig if he was training a new recruit or if he’d worried that he might need backup for bringing her in. But she doubted he’d get the joke. She wouldn’t have gotten it either until about a week ago. That’s when she’d made her decision. The decision to put some spontaneity into her life. She was sick of being plain old quiet, reserved Elizabeth who never varied her routine. Who stuck with what worked and avoided personal risk at all cost. She got out of bed at the same time every morning, showered, readied for work and ate a vitamin-enhanced meal bar on the way to the office. After ten or twelve hours at the office and/or hospital, she worked out at the fitness center and went home, took a relaxing hot bath and fell into bed utterly exhausted.
Same thing, day in and day out.
She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d gone to a movie much less had a simple dinner date.
But no more.
Still, she had an obligation to the CIA. She’d promised to help out when they needed her. Right now might be inconvenient but it was her duty to at least listen to what they needed. Growing up a military brat had taught her two things if nothing else: always guard your feelings and never, ever forget those who risk their lives for your freedom. Guarding her feelings was a hard-learned skill, the knowledge gained from moving every two to three years and having to fit in someplace new. The other—well, patriotism was simply something every good American should practice.