I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

dead. Alexa—” he twirled a lock of my slightly bloody hair, “—less so.”
    “But—”
    “Unconscious and bleeding profusely, but not dead. Able to make a full confession. Currently under armed police guard in, ironically, the same wing as Macbeth.”
    “That is ironic.” I took a deep breath. There was something that had been bugging me. “Luke, am I in trouble?”
    He looked surprised. “You saved the day, Soph. Why would you be in trouble?”
    “I killed Sven with what I’m pretty sure is an unlicensed firearm, I may have shot Alexa and I got two SO17 agents severely injured.”
    Luke shrugged. “I repeat, why would you be in trouble? The good guys are alive. The bad guys got caught. Everything else can be fixed. And Sven, by the way, was really a Steven. And as for licensing…”
    He reached out and picked up the gun, looking at it. “This is illegal in a whole lot of ways.” He bit his lip. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
    “Oh, God, I am in trouble.”
    “Well, you could be. I never told you this, but your stun gun is illegal.”
    I couldn’t tell him I already knew that. Could I?
    “Then why’d you let me have it?”
    “Hell, Sophie, I couldn’t leave you entirely unprotected.”
    “Have you ever heard the one about getting hung for a sheep or a lamb?” I asked him, and he grinned.
    “I have. And,” he reached inside his jacket for something, “I’ve decided to go for the sheep.”
    He handed me a shiny, perfect little gun. I held it like a newborn and stared in rapture.
    “You got me a gun?”
    “You want to know what I was doing while you were leaving hysterical voice mails on my mobile? I was speaking to my good friend Mike at the firearms licensing department and asking why your application hadn’t come through. He said it had been cancelled. By one Alexa Martin.”
    I gaped. Alexa had tried to stop me getting a gun?
    Luke had tried to get me one?
    I had one?
    “So I told him that was bollocks and you would be sending in your signature very shortly. And then I got a housecall from your friend Harvey—did you know he was CIA?” I nodded. “Thanks for sharing. He said you had a gun and were in trouble. I figured, must be a Tuesday.”
    “Did you shoot Alexa?”
    “Everybody shot Alexa. She’s like a bad tempered colander. She’ll be locked away for a very—” he brushed the hair from my face, “—very long time.”
    I hefted the gun in my hands. “That reward you mentioned,” I said. “For saving the day?” He nodded. “Is this it?”
    “No.” Luke took the gun away from me and lifted my chin. “This is.”
    And then he kissed me. And then he pulled back the covers and took off my sweater. And then he…
    Mmm. I could get used to this reward system.

Look for these titles by Kate Johnson
     
     
    Now Available:
     
    The Twelve Lies of Christmas
     
    Coming Soon:
     
    Ugley Business
    A is for Apple

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love lied to me.
     
    The Twelve Lies of Christmas
    © 2006 Kate Johnson
     
    Nate Kelly is a spy. At least, he is until Christmas, when he’s retiring to take up something more peaceful, like alligator wrestling or bomb disposal. Because while he’s tired of being shot at, he’s also not sure he really wants to live the life of a civilian. First, of course, he has to finish his current case, complete with arms dealers, mobsters, and celebrity parties.
    Not to mention the glamorous Russian femme fatale who’s hacking into the same computer files as Nate, lying to the same people, and incidentally has the worst Russian accent he’s ever heard. But just because she’s his enemy’s enemy, doesn’t necessarily mean she’s his friend.
     
    Enjoy the following excerpt for The Twelve Lies of Christmas.
    It’s a truth universally acknowledged that the average British footballer has the taste and refinement of a dead gnat. Daz, who owned an entire team of such aesthetes, was no exception. The courtyard of his large, ivy-covered house held a statue of three women with enormous breasts, pouring water all over each other and leering. They were surrounded by so many supercars it looked as if they’d been breeding. Whole families of Ferraris clustered together, balefully eyeing up the contingent from Lamborghini.
    Inside, the house was the usual footballer’s insult to all that is tasteful and elegant. The requisite shag pile carpet squidged underfoot, and I felt absolutely sure that somewhere there would