Page 20 of Live a Little!

“Have you worked herelong?”

Agnes sighed, sadly. “Thirtyyears.”

With a pang of cold horror, Cynthia recalled her nine years at Goring Cement, which could so easily have stretched to thirty. Then a thought struck. “You’ve been here thirtyyears?”

“Yes,” said Agnes. “Thirty-one nextMarch.”

“But surely Mr. Percivald’s too young to have been here thatlong?”

Even the woman’s laugh was colorless. And mirthless. “I started working for his stepfather, George Percivald. He founded the company, importing fine china from England.” She sighed softly. “A very genteel man. He adopted the youngNeville.”

And now the stepson had ditched the teapots for chopsticks. A tingle of excitement swirled in Cynthia’s middle. Obviously, they weren’t exporting drugs from Stoke on Trent. Mr. Percivald junior had switched the operation to South America, for obvious reasons. Did Jake know aboutthis?

“Here’s your office.” Agnes ushered her into a smallish box, Spartan, but fully equipped. “You’ll want to redecorate, I’msure.”

“I doubt I’ll—” She’d been about to say she doubted she’d be here that long. Cynthia would have to watch herself if she didn’t want to blow her cover the very first day. “I doubt I’ll bother changing it for a while. I’ll be too busy getting up to speed on all yoursystems.”

She glanced around. The walls were beige and, apart from a wall calendar and a poor quality print of swimming mallards, there was no decor. But the desk was spacious, the chair had lumbar support and the computer equipment was up-to-date. It woulddo.

Agnes stood in the doorway, her drabness matching the office. “I’ll leave you to get settled, then. If you want to know anything at all, please don’t hesitate toask.”

“Thanks.” Cynthia sent her a vivid smile. “I’m sure you’ll be sorry you offered.” She wondered what else Agnes could tell her that would help her investigation. The woman had been there thirty years; she must know all kinds of secrets. “Since we’ll be working together, perhaps we could have lunch one daysoon.”

Her suggestion was greeted with a shy but grateful smile. Instantly, Cynthia felt like a miserable sneak, although she hadn’t suggested lunch just to pick Agnes’s brains; the truth was she’d felt an immediate kinship with the olderwoman.

The minute Agnes left the room, Cynthia booted up the computer and searched it as thoroughly as she knew how. Jake had told her that the former accountant had skipped town before the FBI could contact him. They had no idea whether he knew anything about Oceanic that could be useful, or even if he might be involved in drug smuggling or money laundering. She’d heard the frustration in Jake’s voice, and knew it irked him that the former Oceanic accountant had left the country before the FBI had had a chance to interviewhim.

If there was any money-laundering going on here, Cynthia bet there’d be a way for a smart accountant to figure it out. Maybe her predecessor had left her someclues.

But her search yielded nothing. All traces of Harrison had been expunged. She had been assigned an email address, but her predecessor’s was gone, as were any messages he might have leftbehind.

She couldn’t locate a single personal file, though she easily found the software programs, the company books and the files for the pension plan, which it was her responsibility to administer. She’d crack the books at the first opportunity, but common sense told her they wouldn’t be right there in front of her nose if they weren’tclean.

While pretending to stock the empty desk with items from the supply cupboard, she surreptitiously ran her fingers into every crevice. At the back of the second drawer in the bank of three, her searching fingers hit an obstacle and her heart began to hammer. She tugged and wiggled the object, snapping a freshly manicured nail in the process, only to find her hidden treasure was nothing but a paperclip that had wedged itself into acorner.

She stared at the twisted metal clip while she sucked her sore finger, wondering how much of the spy business was thisfrustrating.

THE GATE CREAKEDas Cynthia entered Mrs. Jorgensen’s front garden—which didn’t belong to Mrs. Jorgensen any longer, of course, but to FBI Agent Jake Wheeler. An early fall nip was in the air, taking its toll on the profusion of late summer flowers already sagging with neglect. Cynthia hoped Jake was a better agent than gardener; Mrs. Jorgensen would cry if she could see the state of theroses.

As she walked up the path she’d trod so many times to visit the older woman, Cynthia felt a flicker of apprehension. It wouldn’t be Mrs. Jorgensen greeting her when she knocked on the sturdy oak door, it would be JakeWheeler.

She wanted to give him a report on her impressions of Oceanic after one day on the job. She could fill him in on the personalities she’d met, the unfortunate lack of evidence in Harrison’s computer and desk, and her suspicions about the “chopstick” shipment from Colombia. Colombia had one major export she knew about, apart from coffee and bananas, and it wasn’t chopsticks. She wished she had some concrete evidence to support her theory that those crates contained cocaine, but not even Jake Wheeler could expect her to crack the case in oneday.

Now that she was here, in his front garden, she hesitated. Her steps slowed and she paused to snap a few dead heads off the chrysanthemums while she debated continuing up to the door or bolting forhome.

On the one hand, she ought to report her progress from her first day on thejob.

On the other hand, he carried a gun for a living and scared the pants offher.

While she tried to make up her mind, she busied herself picking off shriveled orange and purple flowers until she had a neat little pile ready for thecompost.

She never did make up her mind whether to go to his door ornot.

While she was lost in her mental arguments, a strong arm came round her shoulders and hustled her to the house. That clinched it. She made up her mind on the spot. She didn’t want to stay here; she wanted to go home. But even as she tried to pull away, Jake frog-marched her to his front door and shoved herinside.

She was standing in his front hall before she’d had a chance to do more than squeak. And he was staring grimly out from behind the living-roomdrapes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice bounced from the otherroom.

She gulped. “I just stopped to–” Her gaze dropped to the dead petals crushed in her hand. What was she going to say? She’d dropped by to do somegardening?

Get a grip! You are Cyn!Cyn wouldn’t apologize for visiting a single man uninvited. Cyn would probably have him half-naked and begging bynow.

She straightened her shoulders and gazed at the hard line of his back. Tension radiated off him. There were certain men Cyn could probably have half-naked and begging in no time. This was not one of those men. This was not one of thosetimes.

He swung round and his face was tightly controlled, but anger sizzled through his pores. “What are you doing?” This time his tone was soft, but far more scary than if he’d yelled thewords.

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