Wasted Lust - JA Huss Page 0,5

a good portion of her face—like she’s a movie star trying to escape the paparazzi.

Madrid pulls out into the lane of traffic and exits level five, heading towards the exit. When we get back on the only highway that services the airport, I direct her. “Fort Collins airport, Special Agent Madrid.”

I expected a small snort from Sasha over our destination, but she holds in any reaction she might have.

I’m not quite sure what to make of her, still adjusting to the assignment. Still trying to put all the pieces together. I’m on edge, in fact, because Sasha Cherlin legally died nine years ago. A body was recovered in a small Mexican village in the Gulf of California. Mostly eaten by fish. And somehow, some back-village Mexican official managed to not only identify Miss Cherlin’s remains, but also alert the US Embassy, feign ignorance when the body disappeared—misplaced, they said—and then declare her legally—and finally—dead.

It turns out she has dual citizenship. I’m not sure how Ford Aston managed that one, since every bit of evidence I’ve been given points to her being home-birthed on a ranch up near Sheridan, Wyoming.

That could be her real story, or it could be her manufactured one, put in place by her adopted fathers, Ford and Merc—both on internal CIA blackhat lists, one associated with the Company, one not. This girl covers her bases, doesn’t she?

Regardless, on paper, Sasha Cherlin no longer exists.

I look over at her as she pulls out a tube of balm and slides it across her lips. She sneers at me, so I look away quickly, so as not to appear watching. But she’s damn cute.

For a murderer.

“You know,” she says, breaking her silence once we settle into a comfortable eighty-five miles per hour on the I-25 north, “there are a lot of airports between here and Fort Collins you could’ve used.”

“Sure,” I say with a smile. “But why miss an opportunity?”

“What opportunity?” She slides her sunglasses down her nose. Not with apprehension though. With annoyance.

“How could I pass up a chance to meet the infamous Ford Aston?”

Her flat expression does not break.

“He’s your father, right?”

“You know he is,” she returns. “But he’s out of the country, unfortunately. Left for New Zealand last week.”

“Lies,” I say. “I can check that shit, you know.”

“So check that shit.” She slides her glasses up her nose again. “At any rate, we are not going to the Aston house today. And if you try I will make sure this conversation is over. For good.”

“Already playing cards, Cherlin?”

“If you call me Cherlin again, we’re done. And yes,” she says smugly, “when one has the upper hand, they write the rules. These two are just the beginning if you want information from me.”

“Let’s start that talk now. Where were you going today?”

“None of your business. And it has nothing to do with this”—she waves her hand at me with disdain—”business.”

“Then tell me what it was.”

“No.”

She crosses her legs. Her shorts are not exactly sexy. Loose tan cargo shorts with lots of pockets. If she hadn’t just come out of an airport, I’d be wondering what was in those pockets. One of the reasons I wanted to catch her getting off the plane. But her legs are long and bronze from spending a summer in Peru. She has on a pair of cream-colored wedge sandals and sleeveless blouse trimmed in lace that gives her a sophisticated look. Her style says she has taste. And money. The purse is white leather, some designer I’ve never heard of, but definitely expensive.

She certainly doesn’t look like a killer. But I guess that’s the point, right? You never see those Company kids coming. Little girls are not supposed to be your number-one suspect. High-society women either, for that matter.

I’m still looking at her legs as I think all this and when I finally glance up at her face, she’s got a crooked smile. “See something you like, Agent?”

“I was admiring your style, Miss Aston.”

Sasha returns her attention to the back of Madrid’s head, and Madrid gives me a quick glance in the rear-view, rolling her dark brown eyes.

It’s not my fault Sasha Aston makes me look twice.

Sasha shakes her head a little, like she’s reading my thoughts.

We ride in silence the rest of the way up to Fort Collins Airport, and then Madrid parks the car at the entrance, where some local agent is waiting to take possession of it.

“This way, Miss Aston,” I say, placing my hand at the small of her