Actual Stop (Agent O’Connor #1)(31)

A quick peek confirmed it was the room service I’d ordered, so I paid for the meal and assured the puzzled waiter I could take the cart in by myself. That was probably best, considering Allison’s state of undress.

My heart started to thud within the suddenly-too-small confines of my chest. I took a deep breath and quickly swiped my hand across the side of the ice bucket, then rubbed the moisture onto my hot cheeks. Stop acting like a complete dolt.

While I was at the door, Allison had donned her pajamas. She was now wearing a light-gray T-shirt we’re all issued in the academy with the initials of our training center—JJRTC—stenciled across the left breast and a pair of faded red flannel pants with tiny, white lips printed all over them. The vision of how sexy she was in her casual nighttime attire, her dark hair carelessly finger combed back off her forehead and leaving wet spots on the shoulders of her shirt, struck me dumb.

Allison didn’t lift her head from the sheaf of papers resting in her lap as she sat cross-legged in the middle of the king-sized bed, but she did shift her gaze toward me. When she noticed the cart, her expression became contemplative.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner.” I snagged a beer from the silver ice bucket and used the strike plate nestled in the jamb of the bathroom door to pop the cap off. I grinned, sauntered over to the bed, and held out the bottle. “And the beer someone promised. I got tired of waiting for you to provide for me.”

Now Allison’s head did come up, and she smiled at me as she accepted the beer. She took a long swallow and then offered it to me, so I could have a gulp of my own. I accepted the bottle and tried like hell not to dwell on the fact that my lips were touching the place where hers had just rested. If the painful clench of desire low in my gut was any indication, the attempt didn’t go as planned.

Allison waved a familiar-looking manila folder at me. “I can see that it’s dinner. I meant what’s this.”

My eyes flicked to exhibit A. The folder with the stuff for the Akbari interview. “Oh, that’s a case folder. It’s nothing. It must’ve gotten mixed up with the rest of my things when I packed up this morning.”

Allison flipped through it casually. “It’s a counterfeit case.”

I held my hand out for the folder and its contents, and she handed them over without comment. “Yup. I was checking on something for a friend.” I tossed the folder onto the chair I’d been occupying earlier.

“Since when do you work counterfeit?”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”

“You used to? When was that?”

“Not long after you went to D.C.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that. Did you like it?”

I shrugged. “You know me. I’m pretty content wherever I am.”

Allison eyed me with skepticism. I was certain she’d push that issue, but then she picked up another piece of paper lying off to the side of the pile of diagrams she’d been perusing.

“And what’s this?” She waved it at me, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

“I dunno. What is it?”

“Looks like a bingo board to me.”

Oops. Busted! I checked my BlackBerry for nonexistent emails. “Really? Huh. That’s weird.”

“Mmm-hmm. Weird. Right.” She raised her eyebrows and began to read aloud what was written in the little squares. “Tip of the spear. The beast. Terrain feature. Plenty of relief built in. Game day. Crickets. The jackal. Marry up. Clicks. Grip and grin. Nobody’s gonna get hurt.”

“Yup. That’s what it says.”

“What is this?”

“Uh…PPD Briefing Bingo?”

“What?”

“PPD Briefing Bingo,” I repeated more firmly.

“You’ve made a game of our briefings?” I couldn’t determine the exact nature of her tone.

“Just the ridiculous parts.”

“Ridiculous?!”

“I’m sorry. Would you prefer another description?”

Her eyes flashed in anger. “How would you like us to impart important information, then?”

“Beats me. But it’d probably sound a lot less stupid if you all at least used the terminology correctly. A person is not a ‘terrain feature.’”

“I’ve never once uttered the words ‘terrain feature.’”

“I never said it was you.”

Allison glared at me, and I took a deep breath, caught somewhere between shame and amusement.

“Look, it’s a campaign year, which means POTUS is up here on average once every two to three weeks. We barely get a break from you people, and you’re back. It’s exhausting. And every single time he comes into district, we have to sit through one of those briefings. And we get it. We do. We all need to hear how the visit is laid out because you can’t take the chance on what might go wrong if we skip it even once. We appreciate that. But every single briefing is always exactly the same as every other one before it. And having so many so close together, it gets kind of hard to focus.” I made a helpless little gesture with my hands, almost begging for her understanding. “Making a game of listening for those particular phrases seemed like a good way to keep from falling asleep. It was never meant to be disrespectful.”

“You do this every time we come up?”