Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(18)

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.

“Better not make her wait,” he said, tucking his tongue into his cheek. “You might get a spanking when you get home.”

As far as pithy replies went, it wasn’t his best. But it seemed to work just fine because the look Chelsea shot him as she thumbed on her phone was so frosty he was surprised he didn’t see snowflakes forming in the air.

“Ma!” she said. He loved it when she talked to her mother, because her southern accent peeked out. “Now’s not a good time. I told you I might…” She quieted and then blew out a sigh that was a Broadway production worthy of a Tony Award. “Yes, Mother,” she mumbled, her tone contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. Yes, ma’am. Okay. I’ll talk to you later. Promise.” And then, to his delight, she looked around the table, color rising in her cheeks before she whispered as quietly and as quickly as she could, “Love you too.”

After she hung up, he opened his mouth but she lifted a firm finger. “Not a word,” she warned. He took a breath. “Ah!” She waggled her finger in front of his face, and he snapped his jaws shut.

For all the headache and heartache Chelsea gave him—and heartburn sometimes too—she made up for it by tickling his funny bone on a pretty regular occasion.

Unfortunately, I have another bone I’d much prefer she tickle.

Dear God! And it was thoughts like that that made their working together completely untenable…

*

So…not the best way to project an aura of professionalism and poise, Chelsea thought as she shoved her phone back into her purse. And cue the music…

“I’m sorry,” Penni said. “Was that…really your mother?” Chelsea looked up to find Penni’s expression was one of incredulity. And maybe…was that a hint of suppressed humor?

She stifled a groan. “Indeed, it was,” she admitted lamentably. “See, before I was named the official liaison to these jokers… Dan, did you tell her?” When Dan nodded, she continued. “Well, before that, I was nothing more than a technician.”

“Which we all know is code talk for the men and women who scour the Internet and reams of Intelligence documents for the telltale signs and signatures of plots and threats,” Dan said quietly. “Don’t sell yourself short, Chels. Folks like you, sitting at a desk somewhere, are far more integral to the everyday safety of Americans than people like me and this monkey.” He hooked a thumb toward Z.