Free The Kill Shot by Nichole Christoff Page A

was nowhere to be found.
    “To meet your obligation in this matter, you must find the elder Oujdad,” Philip reminded me. “I must find Dalmatovis’s killer. We must work together because I believe when we find one, we shall find the other.”
    “No.” I turned on my heel, made tracks for the front of the caravan.
    I didn’t like the sound of Philip’s proposal. Oh, I liked the idea of finding Ikaat’s father, all right. I liked the idea of finding Barrett even more. But old friend or not, Philip was still a highly placed official in a foreign government. He had his own priorities and so did his employers. And after what Barrett had done, neither Philip’s priorities nor the British government’s would bode well for him. He’d be better off if Philip wasn’t peering over my shoulder when I found him with Armand Oujdad—and so would I.
    But before I could reach the door of the small editing suite, Philip hooked my elbow. He spun me to face him. And in the close confines of the tiny room, we suddenly found ourselves toe-to-toe and breast-to-chest. For one long, loud thud of my heart, we stared into one another’s eyes. Then Philip’s gaze dropped to my lips.
    Whatever might’ve happened next didn’t. Because Philip deliberately let go of my arm. Still, I couldn’t let go of the feeling my old friend had been about to kiss me.
    “Surely, Jamie, you know I cannot allow you to investigate on your own.”
    “What are you going to do? Lock me in this RV?”
    “No,” he admitted. “But I will have you driven to Heathrow and forcibly restrained on the first aircraft bound for New York. Should you try to enter the United Kingdom again, you’ll find your name blacklisted and your passport denied.”
    Anger stoked the heat in my cheeks and I felt the immature urge to kick Philip in the shin.
    But then he said, “Come now, Jamie. It’s been so long since we’ve been together. I’ve missed you terribly. Say you’ll stay in London. Say you’ll work with me on this.”
    Years ago, as an undergraduate at Princeton, I’d resisted the come-on from the English exchange student whom every woman on campus wanted to call her own. And although that student had grown into an exceedingly attractive man and a good friend, I wasn’t going to be silly enough to assume he was doing anything more than saying he’d missed me to get his way now. But I’d be lying if I said at that moment, sore, tired, and more than a little scared, the thought of taking him seriously for a while didn’t cross my mind.
    “The Oujdads,” I told Philip, “have got to be my first priority—”
    “Of course.”
    “—and I’m not interested in helping you track down the shooter—”
    “Understood.”
    “—but if you can offer any help in finding the old man, I’ll take it.”
    “Naturally.”
    With matters as settled as they were going to be, I grasped the door handle in my good hand. Before I twisted the knob and left the little editing suite, however, I found I had one more thing to say. I cleared my throat. Because I hadn’t been entirely honest with Philip. And dishonesty wasn’t like me. But I could be honest about one thing.
    “Philip?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’ve missed you, too.”
    A slow smile spread across Philip’s handsome face. It got tangled up in his hazel eyes and set off a spark there. But those eyes slid away from mine.
    My friend mumbled, “I’m pleased to hear it.”
    And I knew when he said it that Philip Spencer-Dean, for reasons that had nothing to do with nuclear secrets, was pleased indeed—even if he didn’t want to admit it.

Chapter 8
    With our newly formed pact in place between us, Philip and I left his RV hidden in that East End warehouse and ended up where this misadventure had begun.
    At a bookshop in Covent Garden.
    This was the last place I’d seen Armand Oujdad, not to mention the first place in London I’d seen Adam Barrett. It was also the last place London’s network of closed-circuit