Flashpoint

Before tonight, the closest Tess Bailey had come to a strip club was on TV, where beautiful women danced seductively in G-strings, taut young body parts bouncing and gleaming from a stage that sparkled and flashed.

In the Gentlemen’s Den, thousands of miles from Hollywood in a rundown neighborhood north of Washington, DC, the mirror ball was broken, and the aging stripper on the sagging makeshift stage looked tired and cold.

“Whoops.” Nash turned his back to the noisy room, carefully keeping his face in the shadows. “That’s Gus Mondelay sitting with Decker,” he told Tess.

Diego Nash had the kind of face that stood out in a crowd. And Nash obviously didn’t want Mondelay — whoever he was — to see him.

Tess followed him back toward the bar, away from the table where Lawrence Decker, Nash’s longtime Agency partner, was working undercover.

She bumped into someone. “Excuse me–”

Oh my God! The waitresses here weren’t wearing any shirts. The Gentlemen’s Den wasn’t just a strip club, it was also a topless bar. She grabbed Nash’s hand and dragged him down the passageway that led to the pay phone and the restrooms. It was dark back there, with the added bonus of nary a half-naked woman in sight.

She had to say it. “This was just a rumor–”

He pinned her up against the wall and nuzzled her neck, his arms braced on either side of her. She was only stunned for about two seconds before she realized that two men had staggered out of the men’s room. This was just another way for Nash to hide his face.

She pretended that she was only pretending to melt as he kissed her throat and jawline, as he waited until Drunk and Drunker pushed past them before he spoke, his breath warm against her ear. “There were at least four shooters set up and waiting out front in the parking lot. And those were just the ones I spotted as we were walking in.”

The light in the parking lot had been dismal. Tess’s concentration had alternated between her attempts not to catch her foot in a pothole and fall on her face, the two biker types who appeared to be having, quite literally, a pissing contest, and the unbelievable fact that she was out in the real world with the legendary Diego Nash.

They were now alone in the hallway, but Nash hadn’t moved out of whispering range. He was standing so close, Tess’s nose was inches from the collar of his expensive shirt. He smelled outrageously good. “Who’s Gus Mondelay?” she asked.

“An informant,” he said tersely, the muscle in the side of his perfect jaw jumping. “He’s on the Agency payroll, but lately I’ve been wondering…” He shook his head. “It fits that he’s here, now. He’d enjoy watching Deck get gunned down.” The smile he gave her was grim. “Thanks for having the presence of mind to call me.”

Tess still couldn’t believe the conversation she’d overheard just over an hour ago at Agency Headquarters.

A rumor had come in that Lawrence Decker’s cover had been blown, and there was an ambush being set to kill him. The Agency’s nightshift support staff had attempted to contact him, but had been able to do little more than leave a message on his voicemail.

No one in the office had bothered to get in touch with Diego Nash.

“Nash isn’t working this case with Decker,” Suellen Foster had informed Tess. “Besides, it’s just a rumor.”

Nash was more than Decker’s partner. He was Decker’s friend. Tess had called him even as she ran for the parking lot.

“So what do we do?” Tess asked now, looking up at Nash.

He had eyes the color of melted chocolate — warm eyes that held a perpetual glint of amusement whenever he came into the office in HQ and flirted with the mostly female support staff. He liked to perch on the edge of Tess’s desk in particular, and the other Agency analysts and staffers teased her about his attention. They also warned her of the dangers of dating a field agent, particularly one like Diego Nash, who had a serious double-oh-seven complex.

As if she needed their warning.

Nash sat on her desk because he liked her little bowl of lemon mints, and because she called him “tall, dark and egotistical” right to his perfect cheekbones, and refused to take him seriously.

Right now, though, she was in his world, and she was taking him extremely seriously.

Right now his usually warm eyes were cold and almost flat-looking, as if part of him were a million miles away.

“We do nothing,” Nash told Tess now. “You go home.”

“I can help.”

He’d already dismissed her. “You’ll help more by leaving.”

“I’ve done the training,” she informed him, blocking his route back to the bar. “I’ve got an application in for a field agent position. It’s just a matter of time before–”

Nash shook his head. “They’re not going to take you. They’re never going to take you. Look, Bailey, thanks for the ride, but–”

“Tess,” she said. He had a habit of calling the support staff by their last names, but tonight she was here, in the field. “And they are too going to take me. Brian Underwood told me–”

“Brian Underwood was stringing you along because he was afraid you would quit and he needs you on support. You’ll excuse me if I table this discussion on your lack of promotability and start focusing on the fact that my partner is about to–”

“I can get a message to Decker,” Tess pointed out. “No one in that bar has ever seen me before.”

Nash laughed in her face. “Yeah, what? Are you going to walk over to him with your freckles and your Sunday Church Picnic clothes–”

“These aren’t Sunday Church Picnic clothes!” They were running-into-work-on-a-Friday-night-at-10:30-to-pick- up-a-file clothes. Jeans. Sneakers. T-shirt.

T-shirt…

Tess looked back down the hall toward the bar, toward the ordering station where the waitresses came to pick up drinks and drop off empty glasses.

“You stand out in this shithole as much as I do wearing this suit,” Nash told her. “More. If you walk up to Decker looking the way you’re looking…”

There was a stack of small serving trays, right there, by the bartender’s cash register.

“He’s my friend, too,” Tess said. “He needs to be warned, and I can do it.”

“No.” Finality rang in his voice. “Just walk out the front door, Bailey, get back into your car and–”

Tess took off her T-shirt, unhooked her bra, peeled it down her arms, and handed them both to him.

“What message should I give him?” she asked.

Nash appeared to be completely dumbstruck. He looked at her, looked at the shirt and wispy lace of bra dangling from his hand, looked at her again.

Looked at her. “Jeez, Bailey.”

Tess knew she was blushing, she felt the heat in her cheeks as clearly as she felt the coolness from the air conditioning against her bare back and shoulders.

“What should I tell him?” she asked Nash again.

“Damn,” he said, laughing a little bit. “Okay. O-kay.” He stuffed her clothes into his jacket pocket. “Except you still look like a Sunday School teacher.”