Illicit Intent, page 28
Tox clapped once. “Well? Let’s see the Bat Cave.”
“The Bat Cave is a dump compared to this place. Welcome, Calliope.”
“Nathan, this is so cool.”
“If you think this is cool, come on.” Nathan turned to Tox. “Have you seen the house yet?”
Tox hesitated. “Not yet, we’re headed there next.”
“Well, that was dumb. Any house is going to seem like a shithole after this place.”
Tox chuckled. “I just need a couch and a TV. I don’t need to talk a spaceship back into orbit.”
Calliope momentarily stalled. Tox talked about his new house like a bachelor pad. Hadn’t they agreed to move forward? She shook it off and tried to look around like she hadn’t a care. As she studied the recessed lighting in the ceiling with great care, she failed to notice Nathan give Tox the tactical signal for “dog” and “okay.” Tox nodded and they proceeded with the tour.
“Calliope, Twitch is over at what she insists on calling Cyberland.” Nathan rolled his eyes. “We’ll head there first. We actually could land a spacecraft if we needed to,” Nathan added.
“Jack and Charlie can’t wait to see Uncle T.” They’d settled on the name because when Jack said “Tox” for some reason it came out sounding like “fuck,” and Uncle Miller was being abbreviated by the boys to “unkiller.” Uncle T seemed like the safest option.
They completed the tour in Nathan’s office. The space bore no resemblance to Nathan’s fortress at Knightsgrove-Bishop in New York. The rooms took up a back corner of the second floor. The glass walls which separated it from the offices and open workspaces could be darkened for privacy but currently provided an unobstructed view all the way to the large reception area in the center of the building. Tox and Calliope sat in matching nut-brown suede and chrome chairs facing Nathan’s glass-topped desk behind which he currently sat, beaming. The traditional 12-pane sash-hung windows had been replaced with a single pane of double-layered bullet-proof glass covered by plantation shutters.
“Calliope, Tox called me with an idea a couple of days ago, and I was inclined to agree. We think your unique brand of fieldwork could be a real asset at Bishop Security.”
Calliope sat up straight in her chair.
“I spoke with your handler. Sorry about all this behind the scenes maneuvering, but you know as well as anyone how carefully we have to step when it comes to international surveillance.”
Calliope nodded.
“Tox spoke with your stepfather. He can discuss that with you later.” Nathan remained indifferent, but Tox shifted in his seat like he was sitting on fire ants.
“You’d be doing almost exactly what you did for INL but a pared-down version—shorter assignments, more specific data, more immediate intel. We have more leeway when it comes to international work, hence, more jobs. It would be actual undercover work. We would give you an identity, you’d do preliminary informational recon and you’re out. You’d be based here and travel as needed. The contract is in your inbox. Look it over and get back to me.”
Calliope glanced at the photo in its place of pride on his desk. A candid photo of Nathan and Emily each feeding a toddler ice cream. It wasn’t taken in an exotic location, and the family wasn’t doing anything particularly memorable, and yet their faces reflected their unfettered joy. That, Calliope thought, that’s what I’ve been looking for.
Tox spread his hand across her upper back. “It could be the best of both worlds. You could continue doing what you love, but you’d also have a home, a place to put down…”
“Yes.” Calliope jumped from her seat, climbed into his lap, and repeated nearly the exact words her mother had said to her stepfather when he had given her the fish all those years ago. “It isn’t a romantic gift, but it is exactly what I wanted.”
When they broke apart from the kiss, Nathan had left the room. Tox stood and set her gently on the carpet. With a look that left her warm and hot, he took her hand.
“Come on.”
One look and Calliope knew. Tox wanted her there with him. He had chosen this house for her. It was a pale-yellow clapboard, Cape Cod colonial with dark gray shutters and a red front door. Overflowing flower boxes punctuated each window, and a covered porch ran the length of the front–a suspended bench swing at one end, a small table flanked by Adirondack chairs at the other. Calliope let the fantasies she’d been having about Tox since the first day she’d met him—and had desperately tried to quash—run free in her mind: she and Tox drinking coffee each morning on the porch, sitting on the swing watching a rainstorm blow in from the ocean. She nuzzled into his side and he wrapped a big arm around her like a cloak.
“Want to see inside?”
“Only if I never have to leave.”
“Well, you’ll have a job. And there’s groceries and stuff.”
She smacked him on the chest. “You know what I meant.”
He ushered her up the path lined with hostas and ferns, across the planked floor of the porch, and into the house, where they were greeted by a familiar bark. Coco climbed off her plaid flannel dog bed and greeted Calliope with a stretch and a nuzzle.
“How did you get her down here?”
“You need to have a talk with her. She will get in a car with anyone.”
Calliope laughed and scratched the dog. She glanced into the living room and beamed. From the quirky pillows and cashmere throw on the beckoning couch to the collection of thrillers and historical fiction that lined the bookcase to the framed photos that dotted the mantel, it looked like a dream. No. It looked like her dream.
“Who decorated this place? It’s like they know me.”
“She does know you. Emily hired someone, but according to Nathan she chose everything down to the welcome mat.”
All her life, Calliope had felt invisible. In her mind, she was a third wheel, an obligation. She could never be still because she never truly felt wanted. She ran towards something. She ran away from something. Standing in this place, next to this man, for the first time she felt…grounded. She didn’t want to stop traveling or having new adventures, but she wanted to have them and come back here. Come back home. Come back to Miller.
They continued the tour with the familiar clatter of Coco’s nails adding another wonderful layer to her sense of rightness. Upstairs, the master bedroom took up one side of the second floor. Movement on the cushioned window seat caught her eye. Loco looked up from his sunning, hissed, and lolled back.
“It seems suburban living agrees with him,” Tox shrugged.
The only room that felt off was the kitchen. The room was a glaring white. White cottage board cabinets, a white wall behind a whitewashed farm table, and distressed chairs. The only color in the room was the vein of gold running through the Calacatta marble countertops. Calliope had to squint against the glare.
“This room is for you.” Tox cupped her nape.
“This room? What do you mean?”
In three long strides, he crossed the room and pulled open the door to the walk-in pantry. Instead of food, the shelves were lined with paint cans, brushes, rollers, and tarps.
“You’ve been commissioned.”
She ran across the room and leapt. Tox caught her by her behind in one arm, her torso in the other as he stumbled back into the pantry. She wrapped around him like a python and whispered in his ear in a husky voice, “Can we pause the tour? I’d like to get a better look in this pantry.”
Thirty minutes, two broken shelves, and one runaway can of spray paint later, Tox and Calliope continued their walkabout.
“This way.” Tox led her out a set of paned-glass French doors. White furniture with cranberry red cushions dotted a flagstone patio and outdoor kitchen. Calliope spun in a circle. Across the side yard, she spotted Emily Bishop in the bay window of the charming Victorian next door, but before Calliope could raise her hand to wave, Emily plunged out of sight. She returned her attention to Tox, who was directing her to the far side of the yard.
“There.” Tox pointed to a trumpet honeysuckle bush at the edge of the grass. A flutter of activity had Calliope squinting. “Are those bees?” Realization dawned. “Oh my God. Hummingbirds?”
“A ruby-throated hummingbird to be precise. The lady across the street gardens. She told me what to plant to attract them.”
“You did that for me.”
He lifted a shoulder. “You said you’d never seen one before.”
She squeezed his hand, never taking her eyes off the small birds. “They really never stop, do they? It looks exhausting. Maybe I need a new spirit animal.”
“A sea turtle?”
“Before I get insulted, I’m going to hear you out.”
“They always return home to mate. Technically, to lay eggs, but you see my point.”
“Speaking of laying eggs. We didn’t use anything in the pantry just now.”
“I get tested every six months, and I haven’t been with anyone but you since my last checkup.”
“I know you’d never do anything that was unsafe for me.” She squeezed his hand. “You don’t seem too bothered by the other side effect of unprotected sex.”
“The thought of you pregnant gets me hard.”
Calliope dissolved into a puddle of goo on the grass.
“I’m on the pill, but good to know.”
Tox took a step back and straightened.
“Calliope, I’d like to propose to you.”
“Why are you shouting?”
“Sorry.” Tox cleared his throat and started again. “Calliope, I’d like to propose to you. I want you to marry me. I know what you feel, but I don’t know what you think. I don’t want to pressure you. So, if you’d like to wear the ring and think about it, that’s fine.”
He pulled the box out of his pocket and held open it in his palm. The platinum setting held an emerald-cut ice blue diamond. “If you want to live together, that’s fine too. I just…I want to be with you. Always.”
Calliope sauntered up to him, fingering the top open buttons of her shirt and gazing at the perfect ring. She pressed her belly into the cradle of his hips and looked up, up, up into vulnerable chocolate eyes.
“Let the bear out of the cage, and ask me again,” she purred.
Tox made a sound Calliope could only equate to a roar. He ripped the ring out of the box and pushed it onto her finger. Then he threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“You’re marrying me.”
“That wasn’t a question!” Calliope protested to his backside.
“You’re goddamned right it wasn’t.”
And with that Tox marched a squealing, laughing Calliope back into the house and up to their bedroom.
Moncarapacho, Portugal
September 30
The steep path from Calliope’s parents’ home down to the village chapel was bordered by lanterns and bouquets of fresh flowers. As was the custom, the entire village, some three hundred people, followed along as the bride made her way down the slope. Twitch and Emily walked beside Calliope, protecting her gown from the terrain. The parade was a riot of color. Men passed bottles of homemade Ginja, a local sour cherry liqueur, through the crowd, and children danced and squealed. Calliope drew a breath as she glimpsed the entrance to the fifteenth-century chapel perched on a cliff. Cam, Steady, Ren, and Chat stood in dress blues waiting to escort the guests to their seats. She had known what the men would be wearing, but nothing could prepare her for the sheer awe of their appearance. She really couldn’t imagine anyone looking more handsome and dignified than these four men…until the doors of the chapel opened.
Emily and Twitch walked one-by-one down the aisle to stand across from Nathan, Miles, and Finn. Emily beamed. Twitch scowled then donned a neutral mask that could not conceal her flush. The music shifted. The guests rose from their pews.
Calliope stood still momentarily stunned.
Miller Buchanan was a dream come to life. No mere mortal could hold up the amount of hardware pinned to his chest. From the starched blue uniform, cover tucked under his arm, to the look of supreme confidence on his face, there wasn’t a doubt in Calliope Garland’s mind. He was hers.
She was looking at the man she wanted to wake up to every day for the rest of her life.
He was looking at the woman he wanted to go to bed with every night for the rest of his life.
The world disappeared as Tox’s vision tunneled, drinking in his soon-to-be wife. Wife. She didn’t look like a wife. She looked like every fantasy he’d ever had, and a few in the offing. The little lace shawlette that covered her shoulders for propriety in the church gave him a glimpse of what was to come. Her ebony mane hung loose over one shoulder. Beneath it, a strapless organza dress was cinched at the waist with a sash made of white rosebuds. The nosegay of pale blue brunnea and hibiscus matched her eyes.
The priest conducted the ceremony in Portuguese with a younger priest at his side translating to English. Tox understood most of the native language, his mind clinging to words like amar, love, devoção, devotion, and eternidade, eternity. After the traditional script, the priest added his own thoughts in cobbled English.
“Calliope shared with me that when she first met you, Miller, she feared that you were not compatible, that you were too different. I will tell you what I told her. Compatible does not mean the same. The busy hummingbird seeks the still nectar. Quiet melody and fast, exciting music come together to make symphony. The cold, dark winter works with the long, hot days of summer to make the earth grow. Compatible does not mean the same. Compatible means…”
The older priest whispered to the younger who finished the thought. “Compatible means each soul nourishes the other.”
The older man clapped him on the shoulder. “O que você está esperando? Beije sua noiva!” The guests laughed as the other priest repeated in English. “What are you waiting for? Kiss your bride!”
Tox didn’t need to be told twice. He had Calliope in his arms before the English translation was halfway out.
Elara and Clemente Acosta had hosted diplomats and royalty and heads of state at their sprawling estate, but never had the grounds looked so festive, never had the visitors been so jubilant. Guests could see the clear starry night through the transparent tent tops, fairy lights lit hundreds of trees, and the bounty of food and drink conjured the image of a Medieval banquet in a prosperous land. The first two bands had finished, and the third, more lively group, had taken over. Guests packed the constructed outdoor dance floor laughing and twirling. And in the middle of the merriment, Miller Buchanan spun his bride into the protection of his arms.
The most adhered to and devilish of Portuguese wedding traditions was the escape from the reception. Guests did everything in their power to stymie the couple’s departure. Children wrapped themselves around the groom’s legs. Young men hid their luggage and even stole their car. After an hour or so of fun and games and being dragged back for another dance or another toast, Tox executed his exfil.
“Ready to escape for real, Mrs. Buchanan?”
“I don’t know if we’ll make it. Your buddies are getting into it now.”
Tox glanced up to see Steady and Cam guarding the door like sentries. Chat and Ren were at a well-positioned table conducting surveillance.
“Like every op, this calls for planning and preparation.” He winked. “Follow me.”
Tox bolted from the dance floor and moved through the kitchen, then out the back door of the estate. Across the expansive lawn, the Sikorsky sat ready.
Calliope yelled through the darkness. “You arranged for a helicopter?”
“Your father did.”
As the Sikorski lit up, Calliope spied her mother and father waiting with her bags. Next to them, Nathan Bishop and Miles Buchanan stood while Finn McIntyre accepted Tox’s duffle from Nathan and returned to the pilot’s seat.
As shouts of “eles estao fugindo!” They’re getting away! echoed in the distance, Mr. and Mrs. Miller Buchanan exchanged hugs and back slaps and words of kindness and thanks with their families and climbed into the helicopter.
Calliope’s mother pulled Calliope back into another hug and spoke in accented English. “You’re my heart, precious girl. You taught me how to love.” Clemente came and stood with his wife and daughter and the three exchanged another embrace.
Calliope looked at her parents with a dawning realization. There were many kinds of love, different kinds of love, but each had its own importance, its own value. It wasn’t about more or less. It was about the heart’s infinite capacity.
She hugged her parents again and climbed into the helo as guests thundered across the vast lawn.
“Where to, husband?”
“The airport in Faro. Then it’s a surprise.”
Calliope climbed into his lap and nibbled his ear as Finn prepared the Sikorsky to depart. “Can I have a hint?”
“It’s at the top of your list.”
Calliope warmed to her toes at the thought that Tox had remembered the places she wanted to go, from a casual conversation they’d had when they barely knew each other.
“Costa Rica? Honduras?”
“Just wait for your surprise. There’s another bag on board with gear and proper clothes.”
Calliope nuzzled into the cradle of Tox’s lap, her face in his neck. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Over the headset, a disembodied voice barked, “Do not fuck your wife in this helo, Tox.”
Tox growled but placed Calliope back in her seat and fastened the five-point restraint as Finn continued his rant. “I’m serious, fucker. There’s a bed on the jet fifteen clicks away. Keep your dick in your pants.”
Neither Tox nor Calliope heard more as he removed both their headsets so he could kiss his wife long and hard for every one of those fifteen clicks.
Somewhere outside Beaufort, South Carolina
Six months later...
The Gulfstream touched down on the private airstrip with a gentle bump that woke Calliope. The attendant, Marcus, rested a hand on her shoulder.
