A/N: Sorry for the delay...RL. Here's a little cut scene, unpleasant, but necessary. Do humor me; I do think Tom Keen is up to no good. Never fear, though, it's all Red and Liz in the next chapter.

I appreciate all of your comments and support for this story. Thank you for being patient with me. As always, I would love to know what you think :).

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Roanoke, Virginia

Five hours earlier

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Tom Keen sat in the dark conference room, one leg crossed over the other and his iPad on his knee. The keynote speaker, a PhD from New York, had been extolling the virtues of differentiated instruction in the K-12 classroom for a little over an hour. He stifled a yawn and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering when the next break would be.

Suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket, and although it was on silent he instinctively moved to cover it with his hand. It was not the phone that should be ringing.

Rather awkwardly he made his way down the row of conference goers, banging more than a few knees and stepping on toes in the process. He could hear the muttered curses as he passed, and he tried not to follow them with his eyes.

When he had finally escaped into the safety of the aisle, he uselessly tried to slink out unnoticed. The minor scene he'd caused while trying to leave had caused several people to stare holes in the back of his head.

Once out he blinked at the bright lights of the lobby; the illumination only seemed to highlight the garish red and blue swirls of the thick carpet, the faux brass fixtures. The hotel lobby looked like a poor man's version of an opera house, and it hurt his eyes.

He went to the bathroom, into one of the stalls, and shut the door behind him. He leaned against its cool frame and withdrew the phone.

The text message had no sender, no return number; it wasn't necessary. "Lounge. 5 minutes," it read. He frowned at it and tucked the phone back into his pocket.

Tom approached the sink, washed his hands, endured the ritual of bathroom hygiene for the two or three men present and slipped hurriedly out the door.

He sat at the bar, ordered a Jack and Coke. He placed his briefcase on the stool next to him and glanced at his watch.

He saw her move out of the shadows, demure black dress fitting her lithe body, a discreet plunge of cleavage, long sleeves. He hid the surprise on his face with a sip of his drink.

Her dress might have changed, he thought, but her walk was the same. Seductive. Lethal. She eased into the bar stool beside him without meeting his eyes.

"Those glasses are new," she intoned casually. Her normally brown eyes were now green, and she wore a short blonde wig. She motioned the bartender.

"My glasses," he said, shaking his head. "What about you," he said quietly. "The last time I saw you, you had your skirt hitched up to about here," he said, pressing a cool finger into her side indicating her waist, "and you were grinding in the lap of a senator's wife." He pursed his lips, looking at her. "I still don't know who was enjoying it more."

She let her deep red smile cut across her face, revealing her white teeth. "You were, apparently," she said smoothly. "But you always were a detail man."

His face darkened, and he took another sip of his drink. "You're late," he said. "You were supposed to be here yesterday."

"Yes," she said. Her arms rubbed up and down the rich brocade fabric of her dress. "I was detained."

An eyebrow went up. "Business or pleasure?

She fixed her mouth and turned to look at him. "You know they're the same for me," she purred.

He watched her hands in her lap, folded as primly as a church lady. The nails were filed sharp and betrayed no nervousness.

"The dossier is in the briefcase," he said quietly. He leveled his eyes at her. "You could've blown my cover, contacting me as you did. If you had been on time, I could've left yesterday. As it stands now, there's hardly any time."

She pouted dramatically, flipped her short blonde locks behind one ear and leaned into his space. "There's always time," she said seductively. He looked down to see her hand on his knee, the sharp nails digging into the fabric of his pants.

He caught her wrist, pushing the hand away. His warning glance told her that it wasn't the place.

She only smiled, pleased she had made him nervous, to have thrown him off his game. Tom was far too straight a player; he followed the rules too much. She prided herself in pushing him.

"So who is the mark," she inquired around the rim of her glass.

"An investment banker from the Virgin Islands. The rest is in the file." Though he preferred private meetings in a public setting, the bar was still a bit too confined for his liking.

She settled back in her chair. "I get to work on my tan, then. You should come with me Tom. Don't you have another speaking engagement, perhaps in a tropical setting?"

He looked at her coldly. "You know I can't do that." He'd been working overtime with Liz; she'd been so fragile since the death of her father. Doting, perfect Tom had to be even more so just to keep up. Exhausting, but necessary.

The woman opposite him knew that too. Though she wouldn't tell him, she rather liked this latest persona. The perfect husband and elementary school teacher. It was the most pedestrian one he'd had, and she had her doubts when he'd married that mouse of a girl that he could even pull it off.

"How is sweet Liz," she intoned acidly. "No trouble in paradise, I hope." She moved one knee over the other, giving him a better view of her shapely legs.

"None at all." He smiled, a darkness settling in his eyes that looked at home there. "I'm good at what I do."

She straightened. "So am I," she said seriously. "And you can be assured that Mr. Virgin Islands Investment Banker will be taken care of." She eyed the briefcase, then looked up at him. "So let's go take a look at the file, shall we?"

She followed him out and into the hideous lobby. They reached the elevators, and one was waiting for them. As the doors slipped closed, Tom pressed the 9 and stood back against the far wall to wait.

But the woman had other ideas. About two floors up, she backed against the instrument panel of the elevator and depressed the emergency stop. Her eyes were on him, never left him, and a slow smile began to spread on her face. He remained against the wall, shooting her a warning look that she simply ignored. He watched her walk to him, purposefully, in that fluid way of hers, and licked his lips.

She kissed him, a hand snaking around his neck, the other one tightly around his waist. She pulled away, her eyes hooded, and looked into his face.

"The cameras," he said, but not convincingly.

She shrugged. "Who are we but some horny teachers at a boring conference," she whispered in his ear. "Who are we?"

Honestly, he didn't know. He kissed her hotly, his tongue exploring her mouth, his hands at her throat. She trailed those sharp nails down his chest, pausing at his belt.

"Tom, you don't know how to have any fun any more." She tapped the belt buckle for emphasis, letting her thumb glance below it, and she could see him swell. "Remember Munich? Hmm? Remember that table on the balcony? I was picking glass out of my hair for days," she said as she worked to free him.

At that, his hands found the wig and pulled it off roughly. Her chestnut locks shook free, and she looked up at him. His breath quickened.

"It's a shame really," she said as she went down on her knees, "the view in here is not nearly as nice."

Tom threaded his hands in her hair and closed his eyes, his back pressed against the cool wall of the elevator as her mouth found him.

"Audrey," he breathed.

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