Page 6 of Wasted Lust

“What opportunity?” She slides her sunglasses down her nose. Not with apprehension though. With annoyance.

“How could I pass up a chance to meet the infamous Ford Aston?”

Her flat expression does not break.

“He’s your father, right?”

“You know he is,” she returns. “But he’s out of the country, unfortunately. Left for New Zealand last week.”

“Lies,” I say. “I can check that shit, you know.”

“So check that shit.” She slides her glasses up her nose again. “At any rate, we are not going to the Aston house today. And if you try I will make sure this conversation is over. For good.”

“Already playing cards, Cherlin?”

“If you call me Cherlin again, we’re done. And yes,” she says smugly, “when one has the upper hand, they write the rules. These two are just the beginning if you want information from me.”

“Let’s start that talk now. Where were you going today?”

“None of your business. And it has nothing to do with this”—she waves her hand at me with disdain—”business.”

“Then tell me what it was.”

“No.”

She crosses her legs. Her shorts are not exactly sexy. Loose tan cargo shorts with lots of pockets. If she hadn’t just come out of an airport, I’d be wondering what was in those pockets. One of the reasons I wanted to catch her getting off the plane. But her legs are long and bronze from spending a summer in Peru. She has on a pair of cream-colored wedge sandals and sleeveless blouse trimmed in lace that gives her a sophisticated look. Her style says she has taste. And money. The purse is white leather, some designer I’ve never heard of, but definitely expensive.

She certainly doesn’t look like a killer. But I guess that’s the point, right? You never see those Company kids coming. Little girls are not supposed to be your number-one suspect. High-society women either, for that matter.

I’m still looking at her legs as I think all this and when I finally glance up at her face, she’s got a crooked smile. “See something you like, Agent?”

“I was admiring your style, Miss Aston.”

Sasha returns her attention to the back of Madrid’s head, and Madrid gives me a quick glance in the rear-view, rolling her dark brown eyes.

It’s not my fault Sasha Aston makes me look twice.

Sasha shakes her head a little, like she’s reading my thoughts.

We ride in silence the rest of the way up to Fort Collins Airport, and then Madrid parks the car at the entrance, where some local agent is waiting to take possession of it.

“This way, Miss Aston,” I say, placing my hand at the small of her back—barely touching her at all—to guide her around the front entrance and towards the tarmac, where a stairway has already been extended up to the Agency jet.

Sasha moves ahead of my hand, maybe to avoid any contact. I take a moment to wonder if she likes the touch or not. I’ll get information on that soon enough, so I put that thought aside and wave her forward when we reach the stairs.

I let her get a few steps ahead so I can look at her ass on the way up, but just as I’m about to climb behind her, Madrid shuffles past and blocks my view.

“Don’t be a pig,” she whispers as she passes. “She’s not that kind of girl.”

“Madrid,” I sigh, wanting to tell her to shut up. But Madrid is not under my direction. She is along to make sure nothing inappropriate happens. Not sexually, of course. Legally. I am not to make offers. I am not to make promises. I am not, my DC superiors stressed, to become friendly with her, anger her, or push her into a corner which might make her flee or react with force.

Why don’t we just kill her? It would make all this fuss go away immediately. I guess they’re afraid of what her friends might do in retaliation. Or perhaps the gold mine of information is worth all these precautions and risk?

The only other idea I can come up with is that they really do want her to join the Agency.

We take our seats, Sasha on one end of a long leather couch, and myself on a chair that faces her. I’m not going to miss an opportunity to look at her. She immediately puts her seatbelt on and doesn’t gape around the interior cabin, which is nice, but nothing more. This jet can seat between twenty and twenty-two people comfortably. It has a small dining area, an office section, and a nice lavatory. There’s a staff of five, two in the cockpit and three back here.

Sasha closes her eyes and crosses her legs again. I stare openly this time. Madrid is asking for orange juice and isn’t paying attention. Sasha opens her eyes, busts me, and then turns her attention to the closest attendant. “Did I hear you have orange juice?”