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mood. “I can’t believe it. She practically stepped out of her car and gave him a big sloppy kiss.”
    â€œNo sweat.” Brandon’s voice came back without even a hint of static. “Chances are she won’t even consider the possibility that she still has a tail. But what Harriet doesn’t know is that I’ve got her in my sights.”
    Amber grinned. She’d come up with the code name of Harriet for Diana after one of her favorite children’s books, Harriet the Spy. “She’s all yours,” Amber said. “I’m going to catch up with our boy.”
    â€œRoger that.”
    Satisfied that Brandon would keep up the tail on Diana, Amber turned back to the business at hand, following Finn as he headed back toward the beach. The wind whipped around her as she leaned over the handlebars, her black helmet and outfit all the disguise she needed. The bike vibrated beneath her, the purr of the engine working on her like some sort of erotic caress.
    The truth was, she was wired tight and hadn’t had sex for months. Before she’d left for Chechnya, she’d burned off some nervous energy by hanging out at a funky Irish pub on Wilshire and going home with the lead singer from the band that played there Wednesday nights.
    But that had just been a quick roll, nothing earth shattering, and certainly nothing to sustain her through the long months on assignment. Now that she was back, the thought of simple sex—wild and hot and satisfying—was undeniably appealing. Unfortunately, she was fresh out of lead singers, bass players, or any of the usual suspects. And while she’d toyed with the idea of taking Brandon up on his offer, she knew better. Sex was a tool, and no matter what, it inevitably changed things.
    No, Brandon was out of the question. Which meant she’d simply just have to find some other man.
    And, lucky for her, Phineus Teague was up at bat.

    A day spa? Brandon blinked and took another look at the sign. Beverly Glen Spa. No doubt about it. He’d just spent half an hour tailing a woman who’d been racing through Los Angeles on her way to get a facial peel.
    Talk about a waste of time.
    â€œRebecca, do you copy?” He spoke normally, knowing the microphone in the dental cap he’d put on before leaving Amber’s apartment would adjust to the appropriate volume. No answer. Not even a hint of static in his earpiece. “Rebecca, come in, Rebecca,” he said, trying again.
    She’d picked the handle herself, something about Ken Follett and a cipher and spies and some book she’d read years ago. Brandon’s handle was Han. He rarely had time for books, but he’d seen Star Wars and felt a kinship with the smuggler.
    Still no answer. She’d either tailed Finn out of range or the hills were blocking the signal.
    Frustrated, he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Diana’s destination had strengthened his suspicions that he and Amber were on a wild goose chase, and he was tempted to turn around and head back toward the beach.
    From what Amber had told him about Diana’s habits over the last few days, their target’s primary occupation in Los Angeles seemed to involve the application and reapplication of makeup. Not exactly incriminating, or even interesting. And, frankly, the situation pissed him off. Amber was one of the Unit’s best agents, and Schnell damn well knew it. So the thought of her wasting her time learning nothing more scintillating than a few new makeup tricks was more than Brandon could stomach.
    And now Brandon was in the mix, too. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, the action doing little to quell his irritation. But he owed everything to the Unit, so if Schnell thought monitoring Traynor was useful, then by God, that’s what he’d do.
    For that matter, he’d never once seen Schnell do anything without a purpose. And so he held fast to his faith, silently