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

really hate her.
    Sven greeted me and told me I looked tired. Chalker reckons that’s an insult but to me it’s observation. And concern. It was sweet of him to care.
    I touched up my lipgloss when he wasn’t looking.
    I settled into the sleepwalking routine of checking people in, wondering if any of them were counterfeiters, if Luke was secretly watching any of them. Occasionally Special Branch contacted us when we were running a Belfast or Derry flight, because they wanted to do surveillance. It never freaked me before, but then before this all I ever saw of it was people filling out embarkation cards.
    Everything went normally—that is to say, chaotically—for the first couple of hours. I took a coffee break and sat stirring my drink until the plastic spoon splintered. Part of me wanted to see Luke again. We shared a secret now. I was In On It . But part of me was scared. Maybe I’d blow it. Maybe I’d call him Luke instead of Luca. Maybe something else would happen and I’d miss it.
    Maybe that Brown guy would come back, or send one of his mates round, maybe they’d recognize me (I’m pretty easy to describe and I sound good on paper) and gun me down.
    Maybe I was caffeine deprived and needed to get out more.
    I trudged back to check-in and slobbed back down to the desk. Stavanger had closed, Sven had moved on, and I was checking in Roma. Is Rome in Eenglish . I couldn’t help comparing the Italians’ accents with the way Luca spoke. Thing was, he sounded authentic, and I’d heard him speaking Italian to Italians, and they hadn’t looked suspicious.
    I guess you believe what you’re presented with until someone tells you otherwise.
    We had maybe a dozen more passengers to check in when the floorwalker’s clipboard slapped down on my desk and a familiar voice purred, “Do you have an end-bag for me?”
    Luca. Of course.
    I looked up, and there was no hint in his face that he was anyone else. But I knew he wasn’t called Luca, wasn’t Italian, wasn’t at all who he presented himself to be.
    “Sure,” I said, handing him a little case. “No offer of dinner this time?”
    “But you only got me one bag,” he replied. “It’s three bags for dinner.”
    Another passenger strolled up, wearing expensive sunglasses, immaculately turned out. Italian. She handed over her passport and I looked up at Luke with my most charming expression.
    “Would you like to ask her the security questions?”
    Without missing a beat, he rolled them off and the woman answered with a smile, obviously appreciating Luke’s dark liquid eyes and casually attractive biceps.
    He gave me a smug smile and leaned against the desk next to me. I glared at him and ripped the boarding card out of the machine.
    “ Ecco la porta ,” I ringed the gate number, “ e l’ora d’imbarco. Grazie. ”
    Don’t get all impressed. That’s pretty much all I can say in Italian. That and I can ask for directions to the post office, but if someone answered I’d never understand.
    Luke raised his eyebrows. “You look tired,” he observed as the passenger sashayed away.
    “Will people stop saying that? It’s seven-thirty and I’ve been awake for four hours. Of course I’m bloody tired.”
    “Did you have sex last night?”
    I stared, cheeks flushing. “Excuse me?”
    “You look like you had sex last night. Tired and…” He waved his hand. “Happy.”
    I was pretty sure I didn’t look happy. He was just trying to rile me. And I hadn’t had sex in… Well, I stopped counting when the months got into double figures.
    “Don’t you have anything better to do than stand here and harass me?”
    He shrugged. “I’m going to the gate in ten minutes. Not really anything better to do.”
    “Can’t you go early?” I muttered peevishly.
    Luke grinned. “You want to get rid of me?” He swung my monitor round to face him and tapped a few things on the keyboard. “Only two people checked in on my flight.”
    “Milan?”
    “ Si. ”
    “And drop the bloody accent,” I hissed.
    Luke regarded me with his head on one side. “You want to get rid of me?” he repeated.
    Now I felt rotten. He was only behaving the way he always had, flirting outrageously with me. I used to find it flattering. Now it unnerved me.
    “Keep an eye on things for me,” he muttered, accent gone, and chucked me under the chin.
    Then he was gone, taking his dark eyes, his rolling accent and his fine arse with him.
    Get a grip, Sophie. Don’t start lusting