Unwritten Rules (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 1) Read online

  “Okay. See you then,” Carter replied. He and Madelyn headed down the hall toward the elevator. “You can take your shoes off if you want.” He jerked his bow tie free from its knot and unfastened the button on his collar. “We’ll look like we’ve been to the prom.”

  She pushed the button for the elevator and kept her eyes focused on the closed door. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to a prom.”

  “You’re kidding. A cute girl like you?”

  The elevator arrived just in time to save Carter from certain death.

  “I am not a cute girl,” she replied between clenched teeth, staring straight ahead as she stepped into the car.

  He pressed on, seemingly unaware of his precarious position. “Well, no, not now. Now you’re a lovely woman. But I’m sure you were cute in high school.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I was skinny and wore braces.”

  Even after all these years, memories of high school still tied her stomach in a knot. At the time, people had tried to tell her those were the best years of her life, but she’d found the possibility too depressing to contemplate. In the brainy, funky environment of Berkley, she’d always felt geeky, awkward, and painfully shy. Only in college, away from everyone and everything familiar, had she started to blossom.

  The elevator reached their floor, and Carter motioned for her to step out. He had read her mood accurately enough to remain quiet for the remainder of the ride, and for that she was grateful. When they reached their doors, she murmured something about seeing him at lunch tomorrow and slipped inside. It wasn’t nine-thirty yet, but it had been a very long day, and her temples throbbed like the bass from a DJ’s monster speakers.

  ****

  Carter had stripped off his jacket and popped the black studs down the front of his pleated shirt before he heard the solid thunk of the door closing behind him. He couldn’t wait to get out of this damned monkey suit. He’d hardly eaten all day, and hunger was making him crabby. He hated parties and polite chitchat. At this moment, he didn’t care if the book sold ten copies or ten million. He couldn’t imagine another month of this.

  He hadn’t done any publicity for his Westerns, primarily because he couldn’t. He’d been deep undercover in Africa. And those books had sold well enough. Maybe he should cancel the tour and tell Herman he was going home.

  He collapsed onto the striped wing chair and yanked off his shoes, flinging them in the general vicinity of the closet. Part of him would love to call it quits right now, but his contract spelled out his obligations as far as publicity was concerned, and he’d signed it. He wouldn’t back out despite the temptation.

  And he did want the book to succeed. The money was one factor, sure, but more important was finding a place in civilian life. The department shrink had warned about the whole identity thing when he’d gone through the exit process. Working for the CIA, he’d always known who and what he was, even when he was pretending to be someone else. Confidence had never been an issue. Now his life was a blank page. He had the freedom to choose what to write on that page but no assurance of making the right choice. It was a hell of a deal.

  Then there was Madelyn. She had just started to relax her guard around him. If he cancelled the tour, he’d be back to square one without a good excuse to see her. She was cautious and private, but she interested him more than any woman had in a long time. Her exotic beauty was only the tip of the iceberg. After just a few days, he’d learned there was much more to her than silky black hair, skin like polished alabaster, and a firm, fit body with subtle curves in all the right places. She was smart and funny, and her competence and professionalism almost obscured a tantalizing hint of vulnerability. Almost. If he could persuade her to trust him, his instincts told him she would be worth the effort.

  He hung his tuxedo in the closet and rummaged through the dresser for something more comfortable, coming up with his favorite faded gray Notre Dame football T-shirt and a worn pair of jeans. He pulled on the shirt and jeans, flopped down in the soft chair, slung his legs up on the ottoman, and clicked on the television. Maybe he could find something to distract him from his grumpy mood and rumbling stomach.

  As he surfed the endless string of cable news channels, his stomach growled again, and the image of a big, juicy hamburger with the works—mustard, ketchup, tomato, and lots of pickles—popped into his mind. Growing up in a family of three brothers, he’d learned early that hunger caused short tempers and a full stomach went a long way toward improving a bad mood.

  He retrieved the room service menu from the desk and had just finished placing his order when a soft knock sounded from the connecting door to Madelyn’s room. She stood in the doorway dressed in black knit pants and a black T-shirt. Bare toes peeked from beneath her pants, and she’d brushed her hair up in a ponytail, just like the night he’d shown up uninvited at her door. Her eyes were clean of the eyeliner she’d worn to the party, and she held one of the black ball point pens the hotel provided in each room.

  “Somebody bugged my room,” she mouthed silently.

  Chapter Five

  Carter narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized the pen. It looked like an ordinary pen but a little heavier and with a port in the top to plug in an earpiece to listen to the recording later. The bug was hardly the latest in CIA technology. You could buy one on the Internet for two hundred forty-nine dollars.

  It was hard to imagine it was meant for Madelyn. Who would want to listen to the personal conversations of a writer’s assistant? Of course they were in Washington. It could have been left in the room to spy on a previous occupant. The housekeeping staff was unlikely to notice it wasn’t one of the regular hotel pens. However, if whoever planted it didn’t pick it up, they would have no way to listen to the recording. The whole situation was bizarre.

  If the device had been intended for Madelyn, it stood to reason his room might be bugged too. But his former colleagues and adversaries all had access to the latest in professional equipment. Besides, he was out of the spy game, and everyone who cared knew it—or should.

  “Let’s put it back,” he mouthed.

  Madelyn frowned but stepped through the doorway into her room. He followed and set the pen gently on the notepad on her desk. Then he picked up her remote and clicked on the television. With a game show blaring, he led her to the balcony doors. They stepped out onto the balcony, and he closed the doors with a soft click.

  The cool night breeze bore more than a hint of autumn. They both wore T-shirts, but Madelyn’s feet were bare. She shivered. Without thinking, he reached out to offer her his warmth, but she shrugged him off, wrapped her arms around herself, and frowned.

  What’s going on here?” she demanded in a low voice.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Well it has to be you. There’s no reason for anyone to be interested in me.”

  He almost smiled, but now was not the time. “I’m not involved in anything. I’m retired. I’m a writer, nothing more.”

  “And you’re sure there’s nothing in your book that could pose a threat to anyone?”

  “I’ve re-read it three times since the letters started, and I can’t find anything. I assume you checked the whole room and didn’t find anything else. No cameras?”

  She shook her head. “I was getting ready to write up my daily report when I noticed the pen looked odd. After that I combed the room and the bathroom, even the sprinkler heads and air vents.” Another shiver shook her body, and she rubbed her arms below the short sleeves of her shirt. “The thing looked real enough to me, but after the fake bomb this morning, I’m not making any assumptions. I never worked in electronic surveillance at the Bureau. Could you tell if it was transmitting?”

  “It’s real, but those don’t transmit. They just record. Somebody has to come pick them up to listen to what’s been recorded.”

  “Is there any way to turn it off?”

  “Sure, but it will only record for ten hours. Then it shuts off by itself.”

  “So
what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to get you back inside. Then we’ll go to my room. There’s probably a bug there too, but we’re going to ignore it. There’s a game on TV, and I’ve got a burger and fries coming up from Room Service. I’ll split them with you.”

  “We’re just going to let someone eavesdrop on us?” Her voice cracked.

  It had been a long, stressful day. She had to be exhausted, and he knew she hadn’t eaten much. He didn’t want her teetering on the edge. What would happen if she fell off?

  He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “At this point, we have no idea who is listening or why. The more ordinary and boring the recordings are, the sooner they’ll lose interest and give up.”

  An expletive slipped out under her breath. “We might be under surveillance 24/7.”

  “We might, but that would be expensive and involve several people. You and I both know we’ve done nothing to merit that level of interest. Until we can figure it out, we don’t want to tip off our listeners that we’re on to them.”

  “Okay, but I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I, but don’t worry. We’re in this together. We’ll figure it out.” He gave her shoulders a quick squeeze before dropping his hands. “Let’s go back in. I don’t want to miss my dinner.”

  He closed the doors behind them then turned off her television. It wouldn’t make sense to have both sets on if they were eating together in his room, and he wasn’t about to let their listener keep him from talking to Madelyn. She needed distraction. He had been in this position before. She hadn’t.

  He was used to the constant hum of tension. Covert ops wasn’t an occupation you could leave at the office at the end of the day. You lived it every minute of every day. After a couple of years, he’d figured out how to make the tension work for him. Now his body responded to the familiar rush with focused energy.

  His brain buzzed with possibilities. Who could have planted the bugs? Whoever it was likely wasn’t acting in any official capacity or they would have used better equipment. If anyone was concerned about the contents of the book, all they had to do was read it. Besides, it was too late to prevent publication. The book was scheduled to hit the shelves tomorrow. Surely no one in the publishing world would engage in such a low rent form of industrial espionage. He was so tired and the thought so ludicrous he almost laughed out loud.

  He opened the connecting door and led the way into his room. Madelyn waited just inside while he walked to the desk and picked up the pen. It was the same as hers. Whoever had planted the devices certainly lacked imagination. This was not the work of a professional.

  “Have a seat.” He directed her to the armchair then piled the pillows against the headboard, stretched out on the bed, and picked up the remote. He had just found a late college football game from the West Coast when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Room Service,” called a muffled voice.

  She started to rise, but he motioned for her to stay seated. “Relax. I’ll get it.”

  It probably was Room Service, but the way this day had gone, it couldn’t hurt to be careful. Pulling a compact automatic pistol from his suitcase, he tucked it into the waistband of his jeans under his shirt. He opened the door a sliver, leaving the chain on, and studied the smiling waiter with his linen-covered cart. It was topped with a tray holding cutlery, small jars of mustard and ketchup, a glass, a silver-domed plate, and an ice bucket. So far, so good. He slipped the chain and opened the door.

  “Your dinner, sir.”

  “Thanks. You can put it on the table.”

  He scrutinized the man’s every move with his hands resting on his hips inches from his gun. Madelyn remained silent while the efficient waiter completed his set-up and left.

  Carter returned the gun to his suitcase without comment and stepped over to the table. Raising the dome, he inhaled deeply. “Aah. There’s nothing like the smell of hot grease.” He lifted the top of the bun. “Do you want mustard, ketchup, or both?”

  She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes you are. You’re probably too hungry to feel it anymore.” He spread a generous daub of mustard and ketchup on the burger, then replaced the bun and cut it in half with a knife. “Here.” He handed her half with a napkin. “Eat it. You’ll feel better.”

  He dug the remaining ketchup out of the miniature bottle with the knife and made a little mound on the plate next to the fries. Then he set the plate on the Georgian-style coffee table between them, scooped up a couple of fries, and popped them in his mouth.

  She frowned and leaned close. “How can you be so calm?” she whispered.

  “Practice,” he whispered back. “The more normal you act, the more normal you feel.”

  “And you didn’t tell me you had a gun.”

  Ignoring her accusation, he took a big bite of the burger, and closed his eyes in pleasure. A sure sign of a top-drawer hotel was the ability to deliver a hot, juicy hamburger at any hour of the day or night. When you’d spent as much time as he had in rundown fleabags in dusty, sweltering cities half a world from home, you came to appreciate small luxuries.

  And he meant what he’d said. He’d learned the hard way that behavior could control emotion instead of the other way around. More times than he could count, that knowledge had helped him react to the unexpected without being devoured by fear like a sensible person.

  He glanced over and saw her take a small bite of hamburger. That was a good sign. While she ate, she stared at the television with her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Did you play football in college?”

  “Huh? What?”

  She pointed to the set with her hamburger. “The game...and I noticed your shirt. Did you play in college?”

  The contrast between the intensity of her expression and the irrelevance of the question took him by surprise. He glanced down at his chest. “Oh...yeah. I was a wide receiver. Scholarship.”

  “So you like football?”

  “Sure.” Where was she going with this odd conversation?

  She leaned forward with a frown and whispered, “I’m trying. You could help me out here, you know.”

  Her insistence brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips. She was trying. He hadn’t been wrong about her. Her delicate appearance belied a core of resilience and strength.

  He nodded toward her hand. “Good, isn’t it?”

  She glanced at the burger with a look of surprise. It was half gone. “Yes, it is.”

  She took another bite. He offered her the plate of fries. She started to refuse then changed her mind and ate two, dipped in ketchup. While they ate, he maintained a running commentary on the game, and she added an occasional comment.

  Gradually her conversation became more natural, and her body relaxed. His strategy was working. Her eyelids drooped as the tension drained away. If he didn’t get her back to her room soon, she was likely to fall asleep where she sat. Under other circumstances, he would welcome the possibility, but not tonight.

  When he stood, Madelyn jerked her head and blinked. “I think I need to go to bed now. Thanks for the food.”

  “No problem.” He accompanied her to the door connecting their rooms. To evade their listener, he lowered his voice. “I think we should leave these open tonight. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Who knows? After everything that’s happened today, I couldn’t begin to guess, but I don’t think I have enough energy to break down two locked doors if anything happens.”

  He expected an argument, but she merely nodded, whether in exhaustion or agreement, he couldn’t tell. She disappeared into her room, leaving the door open a couple of inches, and he did the same.

  ****

  Madelyn awoke slowly the next morning to sunlight glowing through the curtains. She blinked, trying to get her bearings. Nothing looked right. What time was it, anyway? She rolled over and peered at the clock on t
he nightstand. Ten o’clock!! She hadn’t slept until ten o’clock since college. She threw back the down-filled duvet and swung her legs over the side of the bed, struck by the sharp, sick feeling that she must be late. She was never late. She hated being late.

  Once she was upright, awareness seeped back in. She wasn’t late. She didn’t have to be anywhere until she met Carter and Herman for lunch before driving to the bookstore for the signing. She collapsed backward onto the soft mound of rumpled covers. Last night she’d eventually managed to relax watching the football game with Carter, but as soon as she returned to her room, the unease reappeared and steadily built while she brushed her teeth and changed into her pajamas. She couldn’t take her mind off the pen on the desk.

  Whoever had placed it clearly wasn’t concerned about discovery. It was almost as if they meant her to find it. That thought disturbed her almost as much as the device itself. Who? Why? The questions had tumbled around for hours in a brain too tired for coherent thought. She didn’t know how long it took to fall asleep. The last time she checked the clock, it glowed three forty-two. Thank heaven she didn’t have to be at her sharpest anytime soon.

  She dragged herself upright again. She needed to check on Carter to make sure he hadn’t gone out despite her warning. He wasn’t the sort of man who followed instructions unless they mirrored his own ideas. She padded over to the connecting doors and listened. Relief flooded her at the muffled roar of rushing water coming from his bathroom.

  A thought popped into her brain. What if he wasn’t in there? He could have left the water running to trick her. No, that was a foolish and paranoid idea. She needed to get a grip in order to do her job properly. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to do her yoga before showering. That way she would hear when the water shut off.

  By the time she was ready for her routine, the shower in the next room had stopped, and an undertone of baritone humming wafted through the doorway. She relaxed and began to stretch. Minutes later a familiar voice interrupted her concentration. She peered through her legs, upside down, to see Carter standing in the doorway wearing only jeans and rubbing his thick, black hair with a towel.