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

had this morning.
    Jesus, Sven! What if he’d somehow spiked my drinks here? Maybe he was working with Harvey! Maybe Harvey really was the bad guy.
    Or maybe I’d really just had too much to drink.
    I glugged down a lot of water and half a packet of Smints to try and take away the taste of vomit, and opened the door. Harvey was sitting on the bed, tie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up. He stood up when I appeared.
    “Hey,” he said.
    “Hey,” I replied, quietly.
    “Feeling better?”
    You know what I felt like? One of those zombies on the “Thriller” video. At least there was no vomit on my clothes, although there was some on my shoe. And they were nice shoes, too.
    I shrugged. “Ih.”
    “Never again, huh?”
    “I have a blue tongue.”
    He grinned. “I know. Look, Sophie—”
    “I have to go,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    “Go? Where? You can’t drive like that—”
    “I have a lift.” I hefted my bag on my shoulder. “Thanks, Harvey. You’ve been really nice.” God, I was still pissed.
    “Any time.”
    We both frowned.
    “Well,” he amended, “maybe not any time. Tomorrow maybe stick to mineral water?”
    I nodded. Then I stopped, partly because I was still dizzy, and partly because I had no idea what he was talking about.
    “Tomorrow?”
    “Dinner. Remember?”
    That clinched it. I knew he was evil. Or insane. Why else would he be persisting in asking me out when I’d passed out on him and thrown up in his bathroom?
    “Uh, yeah. Dinner.” My brain was broken. I could think of no excuse.
    “I’ll call you later.” He looked me over. “Maybe tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
    I nodded. “See you, Harvey.”
    He came over and kissed my cheek. I knew I was all clammy. He must be up to something.
    “See you,” he said quietly, and I wobbled out of his room, down past a wet patch on the stairs, ahem, and out through the lobby where I swear everyone was looking at me. God, did I have vomit in my hair or something?
    It took me a while to find Luke’s car. It was so generic. When I eventually got in, he was steaming with anger.
    “Don’t,” I held up a hand. “I already know.”
    “You’re such a bloody idiot.” He started the engine and reversed out of the space at about fifty miles an hour. My stomach lurched.
    “I know,” I mumbled, hand to mouth.
    “What the fuck were you thinking?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Jesus, Sophie, you’re still half-cut. You’re going home, and you’re going to bed.”
    Right now, that seemed like a very good idea to me.
    All the way home he yelled at me, taking every corner so fast I nearly threw up again. I had to open the window and hang my head out, taking desperately deep breaths. If I was sick in the car, Luke would probably kick me out and run me over.
    I got inside the flat, peeled off my clothes on the way to the bedroom and crashed out in my underwear. I didn’t give a damn about whether Luke was watching me or not. I needed to sleep. I felt like seven kinds of shit.
     
    It was dark when I woke up. There’d been a bottle of water by the bed and I’d half-woken several times to swig from it and stagger to the loo before falling back down onto my bed. My bed. My lovely, soft, warm comfy bed. Mmm. I never wanted to leave it.
    Until I heard voices out in the living room. Male voices. Two. Laughing. And the TV was on, too. I staggered to my feet. I didn’t feel quite so bad any more. The water seemed to have worked.
    There was football on my TV and Luke and Tom were sprawled on the sofa, beers in hand. Look at that, football. Didn’t know I could pick it up. Wished I couldn’t. Maybe if I call Sky they’ll take it off my TV package.
    “So it’s okay for you to drink, but not me?” I said, trying to sound indignant but ending up sounding plaintive.
    They both looked up at me. Luke closed his eyes and muttered something. Tom shook his head in wonder. “Sophie. Babe.”
    I looked down at myself. I was sporting a g-string and a push-up bra that was slightly too small and not containing my already well-padded boobs very well.
    “Shit.” I beat a hasty retreat into the bedroom, wrapped my fuzzy terry dressing gown around me as securely as possible and splashed cold water on my face. I looked horrific. Even after I’d taken my smudged, panda-ish make-up off, I looked grey and clammy. The bruise on my face no longer looked cool and sexy. It looked ugly.
    I trudged back out into the living room. Tom looked disappointed at my new