If you're an Ilsa fan, you're about to be really pissed off. I don't really have anything against the character, but I made her a bitch because I could and it served my purpose.
Ghosts that Haunt—23
It had been an unusually busy workday for Casey. Not the Buy More part, though that was busy enough, but the actual NSA part of his job had more activity than he had become accustomed to on Mission Moron. It started with an encoded message from General Beckman he opened while Riah made breakfast and culminated with a text from V. H. Adderly followed by a visit from Riah on her father's behalf at midmorning. In between, Chuck Bartowski had had two separate flashes—one on an install and one when he returned to the store. All of this and the Buy More before eleven a.m.
The flashes were easily dealt with, but he was still struggling with how to reconcile Beckman's request—order, actually—with his obligation to the Intersect. It also didn't help that he was now going to have to make some more thorough explanations to Riah about a part of his past he didn't relish explaining in order to comply with his orders and keep his wife happy.
He also had to deal with the ISI request. Adderly needed him to keep an eye out for a rogue, and Riah gave him what was probably a highly expurgated version of why this rogue needed to be found and apprehended. To make matters worse, Riah's pale face worried him. She had rare days where she was dogged with morning sickness, and he hoped this wasn't one of them. She didn't complain, she almost never did about her own discomfort, but he hated that there was nothing he could do about how wan and miserable she looked. At least she didn't have to work the cover job that day. She was still adamant about not telling anyone she was pregnant yet, but it was getting harder and harder for her to hide the evidence.
She walked him back to the Buy More, and outside the door they stopped. "I'll be home as soon as the shift's over," he said, slid his arms around her.
Riah nodded and reached up to kiss him. He made her promise she would go straight home, and kissed her again before sending her on her way.
"She's quite pretty."
He spun, having recognized the voice and the accented English. "Ilsa," he said, and he knew he sounded surprised.
The French spy looked good, but she always did. Casey studied her a moment, wondered what to say.
She smiled sadly at him. "I heard you were getting married."
He nodded. There was no reason to tell her he'd already married Riah.
"I assume that was your fiancée," she said, clutching the strap of her bag, "or do you make a habit of kissing all the pretty girls?"
There was a time when that sultry look of hers would have had him steering her to the nearest private space and indulging in more than kissing, but Casey found that while he still thought of Ilsa as an attractive woman, he didn't feel the heated flare of desire for her he had before. That was all Riah's now. "She's the only one," he said.
Ilsa's smiled died. "She's very lucky."
From Casey's perspective, he was the lucky one, and he had no intention of doing anything that might screw that up. He took his vows seriously. Even if Ilsa stripped and offered herself, he would say no, but he acknowledged it would be a very difficult thing to do, especially since he knew her intimately, knew she knew him intimately as well, and knew the pleasure she could provide. She was a beautiful woman, and he had loved her.
She stepped forward and stroked a hand down his chest. As he had done with the woman in the English pub the night he had finally admitted what he felt for Riah, he caught his former lover's wrist and removed her hand. Unlike the girl in the pub, though, he knew the temptation Ilsa provided would be far more difficult to resist. When he released her hand, Ilsa pouted. "Casey," she said, barely above a whisper, and she leaned into him.
He could smell her, the subtle scent of Chanel and woman. He knew every inch of her, knew when her eyes widened and her smile turned knowing that she thought she had him. "Ilsa," he growled, "I love her."
She moved a fraction closer, and he felt her breasts brush his chest. "Love her, then, Casey, but that doesn't mean we have to be strangers." She breathed in and tilted her head up to him. "After all, we knew each other long before she came into your life, and you love me, too."
This close, the temptation was much stronger. He knew what she was trying to say, that they could pick up where they left off. He wanted to sneer at her as he had done the last time he'd seen her, quip, "How French," but with her this close to him, touching him, he began to remember their past, the feel and taste of her. This was dangerous ground, he realized, and he stepped back from her. "Ilsa, what we had ended."
"It didn't—doesn't—have to Casey," she said, and that sultry voice and accent of hers did things to him, things that made him remember how much they had enjoyed one another.
"It does," he said tersely. Their world played by different rules. An agent might have a wife and family, but he might have to romance someone else as part of the job. It was wrong to kill, but an agent might be asked to put a bullet in someone's skull anyway, sometimes on mere suspicion. Casey didn't intend to betray his wife. It was that simple. He had a duty, and it was a vital, important duty, but he would be as faithful to Riah as he had been to his country. What he did meant nothing otherwise.
But Ilsa—well, Ilsa was . . . Ilsa. He had loved her, truly loved her, and when he thought her dead, he had mourned her. When he had found her alive, he had been coldly, furiously angry, but that had given way to hope, hope that they might be able to rekindle their relationship, a hope that bore no little debt to Bartowski. Casey had had a night with her at the end of that particular mission, and he had let her walk away, hoped but didn't really expect he would see her again. And then Riah had come to live with him, and things had changed.
He couldn't say he had forgotten Ilsa, because he hadn't, but the other woman had been slowly eclipsed in his affections by the young Canadian he had married a few weeks before. Now that Ilsa stood before him, though, he wondered if that was really true, wondered if he didn't still love Ilsa and had only settled for Riah, who genuinely loved him back, who would be there with him as long as possible.
Both women might be spies, but Ilsa had always been off on her own, had always disappeared only to reappear at unpredictable times while Riah had been beside him at all times since they had developed more than just a cover relationship. He discounted the fact that he had left her behind for the better part of a year—that had been him, not Riah. Riah was also leaving ISI, setting aside her own career because it was the only way Beckman and his government would let Casey marry her. Ilsa would never agree to such a condition no matter how much she claimed to love him.
That begged a question for Casey. "Who told you I was getting married?" he asked.
She gave him a sad little smile. "Does it matter?" she asked softly.
It probably didn't, he acknowledged, but he was curious. "Indulge me."
Her eyes held his. "If you must know, it's the source of considerable gossip in several agencies, not least because your little fiancée is V. H. Adderly's daughter."
Something about that little fiancée set Casey's teeth on edge. It made Riah sound like a doll or a little girl.
"I remember Adderly," she continued. "He was a handsome man when he was young."
Casey felt a stab of jealousy, but he tamped it down. When he looked in her eyes, he knew that statement had been calculated to elicit that particular response from him.
Ilsa smiled at him and said, "Enough about us, though, Casey. I assume your General Beckman contacted you?"
"Yeah," he said. "Not here, though. I have to get back to the cover job. I go to lunch at one. Meet me back here then."
Ilsa raised her face and kissed him. She'd barely had to rise up, he thought, unlike Riah who was nearly a foot shorter than he. Ilsa was one of those female spies with a model's height and beauty, too. "I'll see you then, Casey," she purred.
"Outside, Ilsa," he warned. "Inside Riah has friends."
She gave him her sexy pout, kissed him again, and walked away. He had seen a light in her eyes that made him decide to leave early enough to keep her out of the Buy More. Ilsa might be recognized from her previous visit—certainly Bartowski would recognize her—and Riah did, indeed, have friends in the store. Casey knew Grimes would make sure she knew Ilsa was back, and Casey wanted to make sure that when she found out, he was the one who told her.
When his lunch break came, Casey strode out of the Buy More and nearly walked right into Ilsa, which told him she had intended to ignore his request to meet him outside. He said nothing, though, simply turned her around and walked her to his car. He had no intention of taking her to a restaurant in the plaza where any of the freaks from the store might see them. When they were seated at their table, he looked at her and asked, "Well?"
"Tell me about your fiancée," she said, as she opened her menu.
He sighed. Why was it the women in his life always refused to do things the easy way? "I'm not here to talk about Riah," he said. "Beckman says you need a hand."
She smiled and leaned toward him. "I need a man, Casey. You fit the bill."
When he simply stared at her, thought about the fact that statement might be more telling on a personal level than she intended, she sighed and started to explain the mission. One of their nuclear scientists had disappeared. He came to work one day, she explained, and sent his assistant home, claimed he intended to spend the day doing paperwork. The next day his office had been emptied, and he was nowhere to be found. Rumor had it he intended to sell his work to the Iranians—he was himself of Persian descent—and Ilsa was to find him before he could do so. The French had taken the man he was supposed to meet off a flight in Paris. She needed Casey to play that doctor while she posed as his wife. Apparently, the French scientist was spooked, and he thought having the Iranian doctor bring his wife to dinner provided a guarantee he was not being set up.
The waiter arriving with their drinks interrupted their conversation, and they both ordered. On the one hand, this was more the kind of assignment Casey thrived on, as opposed to the babysitting he did more often than not with Mission Moron. There was just something about this that seemed a little too . . . convenient.
"That doesn't explain why you need me," Casey said when the waiter was gone again. He knew what Ilsa wasn't telling him and might not actually know herself. The NSA wanted the man found, caught, and in their hands not because he was a nuclear physicist who could jump start Iran's nuclear weapons program but because he had been one of Stephen Bartowski's college roommates and knew of the elder Bartowski's ideas for the Intersect. That was one of the reasons Beckman had sent the assignment his way. That, and to make sure Ilsa didn't whisk the man out of the States before the NSA could take custody of him.
Ilsa put her elbow on the table and put her chin in her hand. "You speak Farsi, Casey. We don't have an operative in the States who does. Your General Beckman told my boss that you were the only operative they had here who could and that they couldn't get another agent here in time." She went on to explain that her scientist had never met or spoken to the man he was supposed to meet. Casey would play the part, and since the doctor always took his wife with him when he travelled, Ilsa would go along.
He couldn't say he liked it. He couldn't say he even believed it, but she sold it well. He would, however, double check everything with Beckman before he bit. "I don't exactly look like a Persian," he said gruffly.
She tilted her head and eyed him. "You won't need to," she mused. "The Doctor's a product of a mixed marriage; his mother was American—a blonde, blue-eyed American. He was raised in Iran and works for the government there. My scientist has never met him, and there are no known photographs of him."
Ilsa continued talking, filled him in on what else they knew about Dr. Farman. When she finished and had answered the questions he had, she folded her hands and leaned toward him. She looked him in the eye, and he could tell she was about to move the conversation onto more personal ground. He wondered where she would start: their past or his wife. "Tell me, Casey, about your little Riah."
That little set his teeth on edge once more. It made Riah sound like she was six. He also didn't like hearing the name only he used for his wife on his former lover's lips, lips that curved invitingly at him and distracted him, which only made him more annoyed. After all, they were lips he knew, knew well, knew the lower one responded to a bit of a bite, knew what they tasted like against his own. He gritted his teeth at how she had distracted him from his wife. "She's not a child, Ilsa," he growled.
She lifted her brows. "I never said she was."
Damn it, she hadn't—but she had certainly implied it. He would not discuss Riah with her. He would not give Ilsa information that could either be used against his wife or to manipulate him. "Tell me about the meet and what needs to happen."
Ilsa gave him another of those knowing looks, and he could see something beyond a bit of amusement underneath, something a little darker. He started to have a bad feeling about this, about all of this, and about what he might have to explain to his wife—his very angry, very well-trained, and very well-armed wife.
He knew Riah well enough to know that she would not be amenable to sharing him, even if she hadn't explicitly told him that. He knew her well enough to know that if he strayed she'd shoot him, probably with his own gun. If she didn't, her father most certainly would—V. H. had made it crystal clear what he would do if Casey did anything that made his daughter unhappy or that hurt her—and Casey rather liked being alive and in one piece. That they had only been married a matter of weeks would only make betrayal that much worse. Then, there was the baby, the fact that Riah was a little more than three months pregnant.
Ilsa eventually gave up as Casey continued to refuse to talk about Riah. She told him she would need him about six so they could prepare for their dinner meet. She reached in her oversized bag and pulled out a file. Casey lifted a corner and saw it was a dossier on the doctor he was to impersonate. He nodded, and she gave him the name of her hotel and her room number. Casey nearly countered with a request for a different location, but he realized he had a problem. The only two secure locations available were Castle, where he was not allowed to take her, and his apartment, where Riah was probably riding out a day of morning sickness. He nodded agreement, and then they finished lunch.
All afternoon he looked for the feasible alternative but couldn't find one. Even some other hotel room still involved being alone with Ilsa in a room with a bed. He caught Bartowski alone and put the doctor's dossier in front of him with a grunt to flash. Right on cue, Bartowski spilled information, the doctor's connection to the Iranian government and their version of the secret police getting prominent play in the data dump. Casey went to Castle on break to read the dossier again and contacted Beckman to verify what Chuck spilled.
He also called Adderly, belatedly remembering he had promised Riah he would and had not yet done so. V. H. was not amused to have not heard from him, and after he reiterated why it was important to find this woman and quickly, Adderly conceded that finding ISI rogues wasn't part of Casey's job, but since the rogue had apparent ties to Gray Laurance and probably Fulcrum, he'd appreciate it if he could keep an eye out for her. He also told Casey he was worried that Laurance might have told the woman about Riah and the Montreal Project, and Casey knew very well that put his wife at risk. As they wound up the conversation, V. H. sat back and said, "There's one more thing, Casey."
Casey knew from the other man's tone that this would not be a pleasant thing. "We've been friends a long time," Adderly began, but he stopped and looked like he was searching for the right words. Casey waited. "I can't say when Mariah fell in love with you I was especially thrilled, but you make her happy, so I can live with it. I just hope you don't do something stupid, and I have to come and shoot you."
Baffled, even though Adderly's words echoed his earlier thoughts, Casey stared mutely at the image of the other man. Then he realized V. H. must know he was going to work with Ilsa, and he wondered how the other man had come by that particular bit of information. "I have no intention of doing anything stupid."
"You know what they say about good intentions, don't you?"
The road to hell, he thought. "I promise not to do anything that would make you have to come shoot me."
"See that you don't," V. H. said, "because it's been a long time since I actually had to shoot someone—not to mention the inconvenience and all the things that would go into getting on a plane, flying to Los Angeles, shooting you, comforting my daughter, planning and attending a funeral, pretending to be sorry you're dead—"
"Yeah, yeah," Casey snarled. "I get the picture."
Adderly eyed him seriously. "I hope so." And then he was gone.
After his shift at the Buy More, Bartowski asked if he could bum a ride home. Casey gave him an uncomfortable look and said, "I have another job."
Chuck, of course, got that excited look he got so often now and asked, "Mission?"
Before he could ask to go, although for a split second Casey considered it, thought the Intersect in Bartowski's head could be useful, he said, "Not one you can be invited to."
"Sarah?" Chuck asked.
"Can take you home," Casey said. "This is one of Beckman's special jobs."
Casey had had several "special jobs," missions where he worked outside the Intersect assignment without Walker and without Bartowski. Usually, they involved a round-trip plane ticket under an assumed name, and Beckman generally made sure he wasn't gone more than two days, three tops, so that it simply appeared he'd had a few days off work at the Buy More. This one, though, was local, and Casey began to wonder how he was going to manage it and his Intersect responsibilities, not to mention his responsibilities to Riah if it dragged out beyond the evening or a day or two.
When they had found out Riah was pregnant, after he'd overcome his doubts, he'd been pleased. He had moments of doubt—he was too old for fatherhood; it was hard enough to do his job with a lover, now wife, without a child in the mix—but he had to admit he was still happy about it. He had promised Riah, though she hadn't asked him to, that he would be with her this time, that he would go to all her doctor's appointments, that he wouldn't let Beckman send him anywhere he couldn't get back to her if she needed him. She had smiled at him when he made those vows, but he could tell she didn't believe it, that she was pleased by the thought but knew he might not be able to keep the promises he made her.
He wanted to keep them, and he was determined to do so. He couldn't blame her for her doubts. After all, he'd left her behind for the job last year, and when she'd learned she was pregnant then, she hadn't known where he was and had been afraid to ask Beckman. When she lost the baby, she had been alone, and he knew she was terrified she would lose this baby as well. Her aunt had tried to reassure her that this pregnancy, in all probability, would be perfectly normal. Casey knew she worried, in part, because of his job and what could happen to him.
Hers was no longer an issue. When he had come home for his unsanctioned visit, when he proposed to her Christmas night, they had talked about what might happen. What had happened was that the NSA had insisted he couldn't marry a foreign spy. Riah had been told that in order for them to agree to let him marry her, she would have to leave ISI. Casey thought it was unfair, but Riah had agreed to do it. She had done so with no apparent hesitation. She had, though, delayed putting the paperwork through. They were supposed to get married in July, were still planning a wedding for the Fourth, but when they married a few weeks ago in a quiet ceremony with a confidential license, she had put the paperwork through. She was, as far as he knew, no longer employed by ISI.
He had a moment as he walked to Castle's back entrance where he wondered if it had been Ilsa whether or not she would have given up her job for him. He suspected she wouldn't have, suspected she would have been insulted, and even if she had agreed, he had a feeling she would have given lip service to doing so and would have remained in French employ.
Once inside, he called Riah. She sounded tired, and he asked how she was. She said she was fine, but there was an edge to her voice. "I'll be home late," he told her. "I've got an assignment." He felt he ought to clarify that for her, but he didn't want to worry her or to have an argument before he had to go on what was already going to be a difficult operation. He knew she would assume it was an Intersect mission, yet he didn't tell her it wasn't a Bartowski special.
"Don't get killed," she said, and he smiled a moment. She always said that these days.
"I'll try not to," he told her as he always did.
He skimmed through the dossier one more time, through the information on the man he was to be and through the material on the man he was to meet, and then he went to the locker where he kept spare clothes. He ignored the gear and the extra set of Buy More clothes and went for the black Armani suit, black shirt and black tie. Riah referred to the dark monochrome clothing as his undertaker assassin look, and then he had a moment where he considered changing as he remembered what generally happened when he wore it. For some reason, it seriously turned Riah on. He stared at his reflection a moment, considered whether or not to change, then realized that not only was there was no time, but his other shirt still had bloodstains on the chest.
Casey made sure his SIG was loaded and put it in the holster under his left arm. He put a Smith & Wesson in the ankle holster on his right leg and another in the holster clipped to his belt in the small of his back. He considered a knife, but he far preferred a gun. For a moment he thought about including one of the tranq guns, but he figured if he were to have trouble, it would be a shoot-to-kill sort of situation rather than a neutralize scenario.
Finally, he turned to his badge and NSA ID. He picked up the wallet that held them both and fished behind his ID. He had put the wedding ring Riah had given him there so that he had it with him but no one was likely to see it. He slid it on his ring finger.
When he arrived at Ilsa's room and knocked on the door, he hoped like hell they were leaving immediately. He wasn't that lucky, though. She opened the door wearing nothing but a towel. He was immediately irritated that he was right on time, but she wasn't ready. Then, as he followed her in and saw that she was merely holding the towel closed in the middle of her back and that it exposed most of her back and her ass, he felt his body respond to all that skin. It infuriated him that he had so little control, but he also acknowledged that given their history, he shouldn't have been that surprised.
She looked at him over her shoulder. Those eyes of hers showed she knew what seeing even that much of her had done to him. He gritted his teeth and thought about his wife, thought about how she responded to him, and then he realized that was not the sort of thing to think about in this circumstance. He mentally ran through the inventory list for Castle and considered the requisitions he would need to forward to Beckman soon given that they had been busy of late and had decimated the ammunition stores in the armory.
Ilsa was looking at him oddly. He realized she had spoken to him. When she had his attention, she repeated (he assumed) her assertion that she would dress and then they could go. What he hadn't expected—and probably should have—was that she would simply drop the towel and begin dressing there in front of him. He swallowed thickly as she picked up the first stocking, and he wondered if he could just meet her downstairs in the bar. She had stayed in shape, and while she, like he, was aging, she still looked amazing. Casey mentally kicked himself for noticing that and then thought he could hardly have missed it given that she was standing there stark naked and slowly sliding a stocking on. Idly, he did notice that Riah, despite the height difference, had better legs.
A slight smile tugged his lips, and Ilsa gave him a heavy-lidded look when she saw it. It dawned on him that she thought that had been about her. It had, but not favorably so.
Ilsa put on a good show, but Casey had himself under control. He sat and watched dispassionately as she dressed, finished her makeup, and then stepped in her shoes. It occurred to him that if she was supposed to be Muslim, and he assumed she was, she was inappropriately dressed. He waited until she finished and walked toward him before asking, "Shouldn't you have a chador?"
She smiled at him. "I have a manteauand a hijab. I'll put them on before we leave."
He nodded. She sat on the arm of his chair and leaned into him. "Casey, I have a ring for you," she said and reached for his left hand. He let her pick it up. She frowned at him. "What's this?"
"My wedding ring." She ran a finger over it. He liked his ring, liked the thick, plain gold band. Riah had its mate until July, but he still needed to find something that would go with her diamond and platinum engagement ring.
"You know it's supposed to be bad luck to wear your ring before the wedding," she told him.
No reason to tell her it wasn't before the wedding, he thought. She stroked his hand with her fingers, and he felt uncomfortable. He'd worn the ring to mark Riah's territory when he could easily have supplied something from the stock they kept at Castle for disguise purposes. It was probably meaningless to Ilsa, who didn't know the other woman was actually his wife, but it held great meaning for him. It was the visible symbol of the promises he'd made Riah—not that he needed the reminder.
Ilsa leaned toward him, but Casey leaned away, arresting the kiss he suspected she intended. Something of his mistrust must have shown because she said, "You'll have to do better than that to convince Dr. Sherazi we're married and in love."
"I'll play my part," he said.
She got up, donned the veil that left her face exposed, shrugged on the ugly, long, black, shapeless coat, buttoned it closed over her dress.
By the time they arrived at the restaurant, Ilsa had finished briefing him. Casey really didn't like this, especially since his Farsi was a little rusty. There hadn't been much call for it lately. He was, then, relieved to find the man they were to meet chose to speak French. It went fairly dully. Casey was grilled by the scientist over dinner. Ilsa, wisely, said little. Toward the end of dinner, though, he caught sight of a familiar woman walking across the restaurant.
Hell, hell, hell, he thought, which only brought to mind what V. H. had said to him earlier. Adderly's rogue was strolling through the tables, and he had no easy way to excuse himself to make the call. To make matters worse, her companion knew him. He slid his phone out of his pocket and hoped he could blindly text Walker who could notify ISI.
Over coffee, the scientist made his move. He began the subtle negotiations, and Casey tried to focus on them. He was also trying to keep an eye on ISI's rogue. He nearly made a misstep as a result, and Ilsa had to step in and cover for him. Oddly, it worked to Casey's advantage. The scientist smiled and made a comment about absentminded professors and the women who generally kept them organized.
Within half an hour, they had agreed to meet again. They settled the bill, and Casey found himself in the back of a taxi with Ilsa. "You were not fully there, Casey," she chided.
Ilsa didn't need to know he had more than one game running, so he said nothing. At the hotel, they both got out, and he nearly headed to his car until he saw the scientist also climbing from a taxi. They made noises about coincidences, and then they walked in together. To make matters worse, the man's room was on the same floor as Ilsa's, and Casey reconciled himself to more time in Ilsa's room.
Riah was going to kill him.
After they closed the door, Casey stripped his tie from his collar and shoved it in one of his jacket pockets. He sat in the chair where he'd previously waited and told Ilsa, "When he's had time to get to sleep, I'm leaving."
She smiled at him as she began removing her clothes. "You could just stay here."
"Actually," he growled, "I can't." He had the Buy More the next day, and he would have to get home to change, nor would it do for the scientist to see him in the same clothes leaving the next morning. And then there was his wife and what she might say if he spent the night in his former lover's hotel room.
Ilsa pouted and came to stand before him. "It's not like your little fiancée could object to you simply sharing four walls with me while we are on assignment."
There was that little again, and he ground his teeth in irritation. "She could," he told her flatly. He imagined she also would and should. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Ilsa, we live together, share a bed. If I don't go home, she'll worry."
A catty little look crossed her features. "So she doesn't trust you."
He glared at her. "That's just it—she does trust me, and I've earned that trust and mean to keep it." He had a feeling he would have to tell her, would have to explain how he had already married Riah, but he didn't want to do that. A secret could only be kept if one person knew, and, in this case, two knew and had vested interests in keeping it that way. To tell Ilsa opened up the chance that others would learn.
When his phone vibrated, he felt relieved. If it was Riah, he would explain what was happening, all of it, regardless of orders. Instead, it was V. H., which, in Casey's book was worse. His father-in-law told him they had missed the rogue, but he appreciated the confirmation she had made her way to Los Angeles. Ilsa was stripping across the room, and Casey found the conversation a good way to avoid complications with her exposure. His answers were noncommittal, and V. H. finally said, "Don't tell me you're still working whatever Ilsa got you into." Casey didn't answer, though he noted the other man had just confirmed his earlier suspicions, and V. H. heaved a melodramatic sigh. "I'm going to have to shoot you. I just know it."
"No, you won't."
"That's still monosyllables, but at least it qualified as a sentence," V. H. cracked. "Let me guess. She booked into the same hotel as the target." Casey gave him a grunt of agreement, and the other man sighed. "She did that to me once. Let me further guess. She's removing every stitch she has on very, very slowly in full view of you." Casey frowned. That was exactly what she was doing. He made another affirmative sound. "Her next move is to dither over what revealing night garment to wear." Damned if he hadn't called it. "Then, when she's selected one, she'll find other things to do before she puts it on." Casey watched her do exactly that.
"Dressed yet?" Adderly asked after a lengthy pause, and a thread of amusement ran underneath. Casey once more grunted agreement. "She arranged herself on the bed yet wearing that pout that says 'join me' and 'you're neglecting me' at the same time?" He confirmed it. "Screw your target, Casey, she'll make the full frontal assault in a minute. Get out before I have to book a flight to L.A., shoot you, comfort my daughter, and bury you."
There were several thoughts belatedly catching up to Casey. One was that in order for V. H. to so accurately describe Ilsa's moves, he had to have experienced them. It wouldn't be the first time he had found out that he had shared a woman with another agent. Adderly always had a taste for all things French, which had made Ariel Taylor that much more inexplicable.
Casey suddenly wondered how much of Ilsa's Sugar Bear routine had been real.
"No need," he said. "I think it's finished."
When he hung up, Ilsa crawled off the bed and sashayed toward him. Casey generally didn't use words like sashay, but it seemed like the best choice to describe how she moved. It was a decidedly practiced walk, and she knew what she was doing with it. For once, it left him completely cold. Ilsa slid into Casey's lap. "Now that your call is finished," she whispered in his ear, her tongue darting out to lick it, "we could start something to pass the time, Sugar Bear."
She might have succeeded had she not used that name, and it irritated him to admit that. "Ilsa," he growled, but before he could tell her to get off him, her mouth took his. His emotions might have gone elsewhere, but she could still pull his body in line. His hands stopped pushing at her and pulled her closer; his mouth opened under hers. For several moments, he felt instead of thought, and when she slid around, straddled him and began tugging at his shirt, he began bunching the diaphanous gown up around her hips. When he felt the smooth skin of her ass, he had a flash of that first night he actually touched Riah, remembered the early hours of the morning on her stepfather's porch, remembered what had come later in her bedroom, and he removed his hands from Ilsa and started pulling hers off him.
There was a triumphant look on her face that disgusted him. She thought she had managed to get what she wanted, and his disgust deepened when he realized she might well have if he hadn't come to his senses. He used his strength to push her off his lap. "Ilsa, let's get this straight. I'll do my job, but that's it. We are not sleeping together." He could see the comment coming, so he cut her off. "We're not having sex. I love my wife."
The oh-shit moment hit him upside the head then. "Wife?" she asked incredulously.
He could prevaricate, could tell her he already thought of Riah that way since the wedding was not much over a month away. She would probably believe him. He wanted to be completely honest, though, since he thought that was what it would take to keep her from causing trouble. "Riah and I got married a few weeks ago." He held his left hand up. "This is my wedding ring, and I take what it means very seriously. You and I are finished in every way except professionally."
"Did she hold out until you married her?" she asked snidely.
"No," he admitted. "We've been lovers for over a year."
She eyed him speculatively, if no less angrily. "I heard a rumor, something about your little fiancée and a baby."
Casey was certain she was fishing. No one outside the family had known except for Bartowski and the General, and Bartowski had kept the secret. He doubted General Beckman had shared the details with anyone, either. He picked his words carefully. "I didn't marry her because I had to. I married her because I love her. She's the one, Ilsa."
"I heard the two of you were apart much of last year," she said. "How can you know the baby was yours?"
If he hadn't already been sure he was over her, he was then. He also remembered that there had been one outsider who had known, Kavanaugh, and he wondered if there was a connection between Ilsa and the other agent. "I'm certain, Ilsa, because I know there was no one else. My wife loves me, just as I love her. She's never given me a single reason to distrust her. Don't make the mistake of thinking she's as amoral as her father. She isn't."
"I thought I was the one," she said, and that sad little sound she made was nearly convincing.
"There was a time I thought that, too," he conceded. "I was wrong."
Ilsa narrowed her eyes. "I understood you two were supposed to get married in some big ceremony in July."
He nodded. A lot of their friends were in the trade, so it wasn't surprising that word had gotten around.
"So why did you marry her earlier?"
Casey wasn't going to answer that. He looked at his watch, heard her pissed off huff of disbelief that he could so easily take his attention from her. It was well after midnight. He could leave through the air duct, he supposed, drop down in an empty room or a storage room. If the scientist heard him leave through the door, he could always claim he was going for a walk. He was tired, had a long day ahead of him that would begin with Riah's doctor's appointment early in the morning, and he knew she wouldn't sleep until he joined her.
Standing, he moved Ilsa out of his way. "I'm going home," he said, walked to the door. "If something happens, call me. Otherwise, I'll be here in time for lunch."
When Casey got home, he let himself in the apartment and reset the alarm. He didn't bother with any lights as he made his way to the stairs and trudged up them. Riah was in bed, and the lights were off. He moved around the room quietly, shed and hung up the suit before he stuffed the rest of the clothes he'd worn in the hamper and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms before he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Finished, he returned to their bedroom and slid into bed behind his wife. She wasn't asleep, he knew from the rhythm of her breathing, and normally when he came to bed after a mission, she rolled over and asked how things had gone. She didn't this time, so he slid a hand over her hip and waist. He was surprised when Riah jerked away from him and moved closer to the far edge of the bed.
"Riah?" She lay there stiffly, and Casey could feel the anger radiate from her. He couldn't imagine why she would be angry at him. Well, he could, but he was pretty sure she didn't know about that. He supposed someone could have seen him with Ilsa and told Riah, and then he was angry himself. V. H. was the most logical choice for the source, but he didn't think her father was capable of hurting her like that. He sighed and moved closer to her again, but this time he didn't touch her. He was too tired to play games, and he needed to make this right with her. "I know you're awake," he said softly.
His wife remained stubbornly silent. He laid his hand on her waist and immediately felt her tense. When she didn't move and didn't say anything, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the bare curve of her shoulder. It was possible, he supposed, that Riah had seen something when she left him at the Buy More that morning, and he hoped that's where the hostility came from. "You saw me with Ilsa," he said quietly. She went even more rigid. Casey would have bet money that wasn't possible, only he felt her do so, and then he felt a slight tremor run through her body. He recognized it for what it was: his wife was dead furious, and he was going to have to defuse her before she detonated.