He burst out laughing. She gave him an irritated look as she fished the house key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. "What's so funny?"
"Hearing you curse. You look like such a madonna-"
"What!" She stared at him in amazement.
"Angel, then. It's that sweet face of yours." Grinning, he stroked one finger down her cheek, then deftly maneuvered past and stepped into the house ahead of her. She hadn't seen him reach for it, but a pistol was in his hand. "You look as if you wouldn't understand most swearwords if you heard them." He was moving, examining the house, as he spoke.
She rolled her eyes and followed him inside. "I'll try to stick to 'gosh' and 'darn,' then, so I won't shock you. And don't think you can change the subject Mr. Vinay hasn't just 'kept tabs' on me, has he? I've been under pretty dose surveillance. Tell me why."
"The surveillance isn't constant. It was at first, to establish your routine. Now it's just often enough to make certain you're okay and to see if anything's changed."
"Tell me why you've wasted Agency time and manpower like that." She had to raise her voice because he was down the hall checking the bedrooms.
"I haven't. Frank used a private agency."
Before, she had been irritated and disbelieving; now she was downright astounded. She slammed the door with a thud. ""You paid for a private agency to watch me? For God's sake, Tucker, if you wanted to know, why didn't you just pick up the phone and call?"
He was coming back up the dark hall toward her, Because he was wearing black, he was difficult to see; only his fade and bare arms and hands made him visible. Part of it was the way he moved, she thought absently. He was fluid, noiseless; you had to rely only on your eyes to detect him, because he was utterly silent.
"John," he said.
"What?"
"You called me Tucker. My name is John."
He stood directly in front of her, so close she could feel the animal heat generated by their run, smell the hot odors of sweat and man. She took a step back and tilted her head so she could look at his face. "I haven't quite adjusted yet. You were Tucker to me for five years, whether or not I ever saw you. You've been Medina for less than twelve hours."
"Not Medina. John. Call me by my first name."
He seemed strangely intent on this name business, standing motionless, his gaze fastened on her face. "All right, 'John' it is. I'll probably slip, though, especially when I get pissed at you-which so far is averaging at least once an hour."
He grinned, and she wondered if it was because he so easily irritated her or because she had said 'pissed.' What did the man think she was, a nun? He was going to make her uncomfortable if he kept laughing every time she said something the least bit blue.
She poked him in the chest with one finger. It was like poking a steel plate, with no give beneath the skin. "Since you'll be using another name when we get to France, shouldn't I be getting used to calling you that? What if I slip up then?"
"I'll be careful not to piss you off."
"You aren't going to tell me?" she asked incredulously.
"Not yet."
She pushed past him. "I'm going to take a shower. Lock the door behind you when you leave."
She fumed as she showered. There was no reason for him not to give her his cover name. He just loved being contrary and secretive, though it was such a habit for him now he probably didn't realize-no, of course he realized. He did everything deliberately; she had noticed that about him in Iran.
It followed, then, that he had intentionally revealed his own name, rather than being so surprised to see her that he blurted it out. John Medina didn't blurt out anything. He couldn't have lived this long if he did. The question was-why? He could have posed as Tucker, and she would never have known any differently. Mentally shrugging, she put the question aside. Who knew why Medina did anything?
She took her time in the bathroom, indulging in her morning ritual of moisturizing her skin, then smoothing on a body oil with a subtle scent that lingered all day. She didn't have to be at work until nine, so she didn't have to hurry. That was one reason she got up so early; she didn't like rushing around and arriving at work already frazzled. Of course, she usually got more sleep than she had last night, but Medina hadn't left until well past her normal bedtime.
Going into her bedroom, she took out a matching navy blue set of underwear, but only put on the panties. She wore a bra while she was jogging and at work, but didn't bother while she was at home. She put on her terry-cloth robe and snugly belted it, pulled her wet hair out from under the shawl collar, and walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen to see if the coffee Medina had made was still drinkable.
He was sitting at the island bar, drinking coffee, much as he had been before. She checked only briefly, then went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. "I thought you were leaving."
"Why?"
She turned to face him, leaning against the cabinet and cradling the cup in her hand. His hair was wet, she noticed.
"I used your other bathroom for a shower," he said. "Hope you don't mind. I had to put these clothes back on, though."
"No, I don't mind. But I still thought you were leaving. I have to go to work."
"No, you don't. You're on indefinite leave."
She sipped her coffee, hiding her shock-and, yes, her irritation. "That's news to me."
"Frank took care of it last night. Until this job is finished, you're mine."
She didn't know if she liked the sound of that. A funny little pang tightened her stomach. She took refuge in her coffee again, hiding her expression.