"Everything's okay," she repeated, and in quiet desperation changed the subject. "What's the plan for tomorrow?"
"Ronsard and I will talk business. If I'm lucky, it'll be in his office. If not, then I'll have to find it some other way."
"I can give you the general location. It's in the west wing, ground floor. And he has a secretary, Cara Smith, so she may be in the office even if he isn't."
"Then we'll have to keep track of both of them. I'll figure out some way to keep them occupied. I'll locate the office tomorrow, check out the security system, then we'll go in tomorrow night. "You plant the bug, I copy the files, and we're out without anyone knowing."
If everything went according to plan, that is. Anything could happen, as she had already learned far too well.
"I brought you a little present." There was a faint rustle of clothing, then metal, warm from his body, was pressed into her hand. Automatically she closed her fingers around the grip of the pistol. "It's a SIG .380 caliber, smaller than the one you practiced with, but that just means it'll be easier to conceal."
"I'll tuck it in my bodice," she said dryly, because the thing still weighed over a pound and was at least six and a half inches long. Until the pistol was in her hand, she hadn't been aware of a nagging, low-level sense of alarm, but now she felt something inside her relaxing. She had never carried a weapon in her life, not even in Iran, because that would have given away her disguise; how had she become so rapidly accustomed to being armed?
He gave a low laugh. "That's my girl." There was warm approval in his voice. He patted her thigh. "I'll see you in a few hours. What are you doing tomorrow? What time do you get up?"
"I'm going to sleep as late as I can." Since she hadn't slept any yet that night, she figured she would need all she could get. "I don't have any plans beyond that, though."
"Meet me for lunch, then."
"Where?"
"The pool courtyard, one o'clock."
"Any reason for that particular place?" There had to be; John never did anything without a reason.
"See you, get in a swim, let Ronsard see the scar on my shoulder as a little extra reassurance."
"You don't have a scar on your shoulder," she said automatically, and wished she hadn't, because it revealed how closely she had looked at him when he took off his shirt that day they had been working out.
"No, but Joseph Temple does."
So he must have a fake scar, as part of his disguise. She remembered that he had looked different, too, when Ronsard introduced him, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what the differences were. "What else have you done? You're not the same."
"I changed my hairline a little, made my brows straighter, put thin rolls of cotton in my jaw to change the shape."
"How long have you been building Joseph Temple's cover?"
"Years. At first he was only a name on a file, but gradually I circulated him more, and added a few details of description, a photo that didn't give away much. But it was enough to let Ronsard compare hairlines, and I imagine he has."
"But he'll have a photo of you now," she said. "You know he will. He wouldn't pass up an opportunity like this."
"It doesn't matter." He stood up. "Temple won't exist after he leaves here."
What was it like, she wondered, to build identities as if they were changes of clothing, putting them on for just a little while and then discarding them? Did he leave pieces of himself behind? Somehow lose just a little bit more of who he really was each time he became someone else?
As he moved toward the balcony, she thought of something. "How did you get up here?"
"I didn't. I got down. I came from the roof." With those words he slipped through the doors and disappeared.
Niema got up and locked the balcony doors, then returned to bed. She was so tired she ached, but despite her plans to sleep late she wasn't certain she could sleep at all. The next twenty-four hours were crucial, the reason she had agreed to this elaborate charade. She had to keep her mind on the job, and not on John. After this was over and she was back home, and he was gone from her life again, then she would let herself think about him because then it wouldn't matter-he would be gone.
Cara Smith always enjoyed Louis's house parties. She loved dressing up, loved the glitter and sophistication and sheer luxury. It was like something out of a fairy tale, watching men in tuxedos whirl women in jewels around a polished ballroom floor. Because she was so tall she seldom wore high heels, but for these posh occasions she put on three-inch pumps, which lifted her way over most people's heads, and eye-to-eye with Louis himself. Her legs looked as if they were six feet long, an illusion she heightened by wearing dresses that were slit up the side and exposed long, narrow strips of flesh when she walked.
But that was for night. During the day she still worked at keeping Louis's correspondence up to date, paying bills-it always surprised her that billionaires had bills, but she guessed some things were impossible to escape. She also had to handle the phones, and notify Louis of any business that cropped up, any problems that needed handling. But her hours were abbreviated, and for the most part she played with the guests. She swam, played tennis and billiards, and listened to gossip. She never failed to be amazed by the intimate details and government secrets people blabbed at parties, especially to tall, leggy blondes, as if she wasn't expected to have a brain in her head- which was, of course, why Louis let her play instead of work. She'd learned a lot of interesting stuff during these house parties.