Femme Fatale by Virginia Kantra, Doranna Durgin, Meredith Fletcher

after all.
    Beth tried to ignore the bitter disappointment biting at her throat. It had been stupid to trust him this far, and if she hadn’t been so intent on finding the keycard that she was willing to compromise her work-alone habits…
    Or face it, if she hadn’t been in over her head, with so little in the way of leads and meanwhile Egorov’s men all over her…
    Whatever. It was time to go. She gave her wet hair abrusque toweling, the kind that made it dry with a bed-head look instead of a sleek, shiny bob, and cinched the bathrobe tightly around her waist. It was too big, of course—one-size-fits-all rarely did. She’d give her pack a quick check, throw the dress back on, and make her way back to the theater.
    But she paused, looking at herself in the mirror as she rubbed lotion into her face and hands. Beth of the wet hair, flushed cheeks, and lotion-smeared face stared back at her. “Dinner first,” she said to that Beth. On MI6’s nickel. That suited her just fine.
    “Did you say something?” Chandler asked her, muffled enough that he must have been across the room. Playing with his laptop while he had the chance, she figured.
    “Talking to myself,” she called back, cheered by the thought of a nice juicy steak. The restaurant here was like the rest of the hotel—it thought much of itself, and purported to have fine dining. She hoped Chandler had ordered dessert, too. She’d eat…and then she’d run. And early tomorrow she’d start in on her prioritized list, hoping for more intel from Barbara and keeping her eye out for Egorov’s mole and his buddies. Or his subordinates—they might well be honest CIA, manipulated by an expert. She’d have to update Barbara, let her know the Chandler thing wasn’t working out and the CIA had been infiltrated thoroughly enough to keep Beth on the run. Hmm. Might as well do it right under Chandler’s nose.
    But when she breezed out of the bathroom, releasing a cloud of steamy air and shampoo scent into the room, she found next to the PDA a pair of dark green sweats and basic flip-flops. Chandler, sitting in one of the comfy armchairs by the drapes, glanced away from the items, as if he’d somehow had nothing to do with their presence. He, too, had changed, from the sleekly tailored suit to plaingreen fatigue pants belted over a heavy V-neck that draped so beautifully over the hard planes of his chest that she suspected it had to be silk. He told her, “Food’ll be up in twenty minutes, they said.”
    “Great. I’m starved.” She looked at the sweats, looked at him, and ran a finger down the sleeve at the edge of the bed. “Nice,” she said. “Thank you.”
    He lifted a shoulder. “The best the gift shop could do on short notice.”
    “After hours, no doubt. You must have been convincing. And somehow they got one of my best colors.” The green brought out her eyes, always had. “Give it up, Chandler…it was thoughtful. Or is it against the rule book to be thoughtful to someone who’s not on your team?”
    He gave it up. “You’re welcome.” And then looked directly at her, somehow giving her the impression that he wanted nothing more than to get up from his chair and come over for a closer look, a most intimate look…although when she blinked, there he was, relaxed and quiet in the chair.
    Whew. Tired. Imagining things. Or possibly not, but she didn’t want to go there.
    There was a second chair by the bed. She sat in it, pulling the PDA over for a few stylus-scrawled words to Barbara, which she prefaced with the symbol that meant she wasn’t in a position for video communication and needed to stick to text. There were no intrusion alerts as she fired up the PDA, so apparently Chandler had kept his hands to himself.
    Hmm. Perhaps not the best turn of phrase for the circumstances. Beth put her mind to business and finished with the PDA, then scooped up the sweats, disappearing into the bathroom to change so quickly the door barely had time to