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

wondering how far I’d have to take the flirting.
    Luke grinned. “Just where he was when Mansfield was killed. Lexy has it down to somewhere between two and four yesterday morning.”
    Eurgh. So while I was deciding whether to get out of the airport business, Chris was having it decided for him.
    “Any questions?”
    “Just one. Why was Chris in the undercroft in the middle of the night anyway? If he was on the morning before then he wouldn’t be working that night.”
    Luke tapped me on the head. “Smart cookie. We don’t know why he was there. He was supposed to be working middles, nine-to-five.”
    I made a face. We never did middle shifts. “All right for some.”
    “Don’t be bitter. You don’t have to do shifts any more at all, remember? Only when we need you there. Okay, kid—” we’d reached the stairs now, and Luke seemed to be expecting me to go up them, “—race you.”
    “Naff off.” I walked past and pressed the button to the lift.
    “Can’t you even run up a flight of stairs?”
    “That’s about three storeys!”
    “You need to be in good shape.”
    “I’m in plenty good shape,” I said, offended.
    Luke ran his gaze over me and I felt a little hotter.
    “Prove it.”
    I sighed. “I am not racing you up those stairs.”
    “Why not?”
    “You’ll win.”
    “Defeatist.”
    “Yeah, and?”
    “At least walk up them.”
    Eventually I consented to that, although Luke jogged up and taunted me from the top. I glared at him and stalked past.
    “So where are you going?” I asked.
    “Cameras caught one of the girls from Information going down there on the night in question. A Miss Ana Rodriguez.”
    I frowned. “I know her. We went to get our passes together.” I frowned deeper. She was very pretty in a Penelope Cruz sort of way. “Luke, how come you get the tiny little Spanish girl and I get the big scary thug?”
    “He’s not a thug. His file says he’s only six foot.”
    “Oh, tiny.”
    Luke grinned. “He’s shorter than me.”
    “Show off.”
    He laughed. “Got your phone?”
    “Yes. Both of them.” I hefted my Ace bag. “And my other pass. And my warrant card—which, by the way, I have no idea what to do with. And I have my cuffs and defence spray and everything.”
    “Running shoes? Sports bra?”
    “That’s a very personal question.”
    “Don’t flirt too hard. There’s nothing unsexier than a big boulder-holder sports bra.”
    I stuck my tongue out at him and made my way over to the gate.
    On the way over to the satellite the Ace jingle played at full volume. The Ryanair girls in their natty little blue suits looked over at me and tittered, and every single passenger zoomed in on my Ace logo.
    I tried to make myself smaller. It was hard when you’re five foot ten and wearing a giant black parka with the word ACE stamped across the back in massive letters.
    I skipped into the ladies on my way to the gate. Luke had told me to invent a cover story, so I figured I’d make something up about a last-minute gate change that left me in the satellite with nothing to do for a while. I checked out my reflection, got out my make-up and added extra mascara and lip gloss, and wished desperately that the Ace uniform gave more leeway for sexiness. Probably people would notice if I unbuttoned my shirt halfway down. Besides, as Luke pointed out, my sports bra really wasn’t too attractive.
    It’s not fair. Flat-chested girls can run whenever they want. And they can wear pretty little camisole strappy things. I have to have substantial shoulder straps. It sucks.
    But then, I never have to pay parking fines…
    I hefted my bag back over my shoulder and stomped out of the ladies, stopping halfway and remembering myself. I plastered on a big fake smile and sashayed on over to Gate 36, where the thug, known as Gavin, was playing with his computer.
    I gave him a smile. “Hi.”
    He looked surprised. “Hi. Do you have a flight from here?”
    No, I’m in love with you. “Yeah,” I said. “Prague.”
    He nodded and went back to his computer.
    Damn. I flicked through the flight systems. There was a Prague flight, but it wasn’t for four hours and it was in another satellite. I toyed moodily with the machine for a while, then had the bright idea of pulling out the keyboard cable while he wasn’t looking.
    “Oh,” I said aloud. “Damn. The keyboard’s not working.” I made a show of checking the wires. “Is it always like this?”
    He shrugged. “Some of them