Closer Encounters. Merline Lovelace

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      Drew trailed her to an Internet café tucked between two souvenir shops. Ignoring the coffee bar, she made a beeline for a computer and inserted a credit card. Mere moments later she was hunched over the screen and clicking away on the keyboard.

      Keeping her in his line of sight, Drew chose an isolated bench well away from the glow of shop windows and extracted his cell phone. It was one of those ultrathin, ultraexpensive models that could do everything but flush the toilet. Drew figured the wizards who worked for Lightning’s wife, Mackenzie Blair, had probably packed it with enough souped-up circuitry to do that, too, if necessary.

      Lounging on the bench like a patient tourist waiting for his souvenir-hunting spouse, he pressed a quick-dial button and was instantly connected via secure satellite to OMEGA headquarters. Standard protocol required Drew to be identified via voiceprint and code name before his controller responded. A recent case worked by a fellow operative, Jordan Colby, had added an iris scan to the process.

      “This is Riever,” he said, aiming the phone’s built-in camera at his right eye.

      Drew waited for another second or two until Denise Kowalski got the green light indicating the caller’s iris scan and voiceprint matched those on file for Drew McDowell.

      “I read you.” Her image appeared on the phone’s screen. “How’s it going?”

      “So far, so good. I’m in place and have established contact with the target. Matter of fact, we just had dinner together.”

      The former Secret Service agent raised a sandy eyebrow. “That’s fast work, Riever, even for you.”

      “The pace picked up in a hurry right after I got here.”

      Keeping an eye on the dark head bent over the computer, he relayed the events of the afternoon and evening.

      “She insists she wasn’t going to jump, but it’s hard to take the word of someone who hears voices. Check her medical records for me, will you? See if there’s anything else going on in her head besides singing.”

      “Will do.”

      “We also need to get linked into the Chocolate Cyberchip Café. She’s in there now, plugging away.”

      “Already done. That’s the same site she used yesterday to make all those queries about the Kallister. Hang loose while I check with comm to see if they’re picking up her signals.”

      Denise was back a few moments later.

      “Comm has her. She’s tapped into one of those online music sites. Have a listen.”

      Drew heard the slide of a trombone followed by a few bars of a reedy sax. Then a female crooned into his ear. Her voice was low and throaty and seductive, like a golden ribbon spooling out onto black satin sheets. Drew almost got hard just listening to her.

      “Who the heck is that?”

      “Comm says the singer is Trixie Halston. The song is one she recorded in the early forties. ‘I’ll Walk Alone.’ Hmm, the target is playing the same song over again. Wonder why she’s so fascinated with it?”

      “Good question. See what you can find out about the singer.” A sudden movement had Drew signing off. “The target’s moving. I’ll contact you later.”

      “Roger that.”

      Slipping his phone into his pocket, he followed Tracy up to the inn. To his surprise, he could still hear the echo of that smoky, sexy contralto.

      Okay, so maybe his target wasn’t a couple of bricks shy of a full load. Maybe the song had just stuck in her head, like it had in his. The melody was liquid and smooth, the lyrics simple and repeatable. Drew was humming them under his breath when Tracy disappeared inside the inn.

      Once she was inside her room, Drew entered his. His first order of business was to attach a small, almost transparent disk on the wall between their two rooms. The communications gurus had assured him the minuscule listening device could pick up a sneeze on a street corner in Gdansk.

      When he screwed a wireless receiver into his ear, Drew heard no sneezes, Polish or otherwise, just the sound of gushing water punctuated by a series of irate mutters.

      “Jerk!”

      A tap squealed. The water gushed faster.

      “How could he think I was going to jump?”

      Another squeal, followed by another mutter.

      “Do I look that pathetic?”

      No, Drew wouldn’t classify her as pathetic. Weird, maybe. Suspect, certainly. Fingering the earpiece, he adjusted the volume. A bird’s-eye view of Avalon’s twinkling lights lured him out onto the balcony.

      Leaning his elbows on the rail, he listened to the splash that heralded his target’s immersion in one of the inn’s old-fashioned claw foot tubs. Her long, drawn-out ahhh evoked images of bubbles and rising steam. The squish of something wet and spongy evoked another image altogether.

      Drew could almost see a wet washcloth sliding over Tracy Brandt’s breasts and belly. Despite the cool night air, he started to sweat. From what he’d seen of her under that baggy windbreaker, the woman came equipped with a nice set of curves.

      He’d СКАЧАТЬ