Manipulative Attraction

6. ⚛️ When a Stranger Calls

A week later, and with still no success concerning Jeannie, Thorne was woken from a sound sleep by a chime on his phone.

He'd received an encrypted email message asking him to update his status on the mission. He called The Source right away—it didn't do to make the agency wait.

"Communication secure," said the automated voice.

"Agent 59638 checking in."

A masculine voice, modified and filtered, came through on the other line. "Agent, have you made friends with the mark?"

Thorne's mind struggled for a millisecond. The person speaking was unknown to him. An unexpected change in protocol.

"Um, no. Not as yet."

Thorne usually spoke to his "handler." A woman who went by the name of H778. H778 was his point of contact for all his missions to date. Her voice, mellow and soothing, was unmistakably natural, not like this person's. Thorne always imagined her as a young Judi Dench—the actress in the recent Bond movies—albeit minus the British accent.

Regardless, he knew better than to ask questions. Wasting time on the "who" and "why" was counterproductive. Thorne's training demanded he execute his orders without question. His response, although delayed for a second, dripped with professionalism, "No, not as yet, sir."

Thorne scratched the stubble on his chin. The closest he came to Jeannie was last night when he dared to turn on the surveillance system. He'd observed Jeannie cleaning her apartment, calling her father, and reading a book. During the call with her father, Jeannie had also spoken to her Chihuahua, Fifi. Thorne laughed and a warm feeling had blossomed in his chest at Jeannie's silly kissing noises and baby talk.

At the end of the call, he could barely contain the itch to knock on her door and he'd let out a relieved sigh when she finally turned off the lights and went to bed.

"Why ever not, Agent?"

Thorne discerned the annoyance in the scrambled voice and the need to defend himself made his tone terse. "I've made contact, sir. I'm just letting the mark fester a bit. To get it to miss me. Wonder about me if you will. I'm creating the desire for it to become my friend."

Marks, to Thorne, were nothing more than assignments. He often referred to them as an "it" to keep the distinction. Even as intrigued as he was by Jeannie Jones, she wasn't an exception.

The voice was silent. Thorne waited patiently for either praise or criticism of his plan.

"Carry on, agent." The man on the other end ended the call.

Time to get to work, I suppose.

Thorne was keen on starting the second stage of his calculated plan to become a fast friend of the mark, or Jeannie, as he should start calling her.

Thorne debated on whether to either ask it ... Jeannie to the party at the Uni or to stay in with her and watch a movie. Since he didn't want ... Jeannie, to get too close too quickly, he decided the party would be best.

The only trouble he expected was keeping his female students at bay while he worked his magic on his neighbor. Thorne's teaching at the Uni gave him access to monitor Jeannie's whereabouts while on campus, but it hindered him somewhat as far as being able to select women to pass the time with.

Students were off limits, but the staff was fair game, even though the Uni administration frowned upon the practice. Discretion was vital and Thorne was a master of that—among many other talents.

Every day, Thorne thanked his maker for his easy assignment. All he had to do was to teach a few classes, which he enjoyed, and babysit Jeannie. He also had a plethora of female company to pick from, and a great place to work and stay. What more could he ask for?

Forgiveness for what you did?

He shook his head to dislodge the destructive thought, his hair flying about his face. What happened to his last mark wasn't his fault. How could he have fathomed things would turn out the way they did?

Jeannie wouldn't end up the same way. He would handle her more delicately. Granted, Thorne couldn't help it if Jeannie's feelings turned into something other than friendship, but he would try to discourage her as best he could.

Thorne took his time showering. He wanted to look his best, so that Jeannie would agree to his plan without hesitation. The steam from the hot water fogged the mirror, obliterating his reflection and the thin scars, which dotted his upper torso.

Three years ago, he had the scars artfully covered by a tattoo of Lady Justice. The ink served to reminded him of the adage "What comes around goes around." All of Thorne's past enemies had received swift justice. No one escaped him once he set his mind on destruction.

Thorne took a hand towel and wiped the mirror clean. He flipped open the wooden medicine cabinet with his thumb, removing his double-edged razor and soap. After shaving, he splashed on some cologne, patting his face with the palms of his hands.

After slipping into a pair of dark jeans and a sweater the color of his eyes, he left his bedroom. He made his way to the front of his apartment and grabbed his keys from the bowl.

When he opened the door, the smell hit him. The mouthwatering scent of baking cake.

Thorne's stomach rumbled. His mouth grew wet. He breathed in deeply, head tilted back to fill his lungs with the tantalizing scent. Thorne hadn't smelled baking so fragrant since his mother's cookies on that fateful Christmas Eve.

His foster families had never cooked. They had always preferred to get their food—morning, noon, and night—from places that shoved it out the window.

Thorne had hated being in foster care. The home with Momma Diana in particular. The rest of them were better, but not by much. From the age of eight, he sneaked out at night with other wayward boys to commit crimes. He stole, vandalized cars and buildings, and if a fight happened, he considered it a very good night.

Thorne could barely remember what being loved felt like. His mother's kisses and hugs had faded. Same with the exact color of her eyes.

At sixteen, Thorne had shoplifted a jacket. The store owner had caught him and had him thrown in jail. An agent from The Source bailed him out.

The agent promised to get all charges dropped if Thorne joined the agency. At The Source, the agent promised, Thorne could have all the intrigue, danger, and fighting he could handle. Thorne didn't hesitate. His newly appointed lawyer had rushed his emancipation through the courts and once completed, Thorne had joined The Source the same day.

He never regretted his decision. The Source, through its rigorous training and discipline, forged him into the perfect agent—unfeeling and uncaring. He would never fall for a mark. They were less than nothing to him.

Thorne's stomach gurgled again. Now was a good as time as any to ask Jeannie to the party and hopefully, she'd reward him with a slice of cake. He rarely went in for sweets, but the smell entranced him. He could think of nothing else but having a taste.

Thorne crossed the hallway and knocked.

Jeannie's voice carried through the door, "Hey, Daddy? Someone is at the door. I'll call you after my study group leaves."

Group? Was she expecting company?

"Love you too, Daddy."

Thorne knocked again. Harder this time, impatient at her delay.

"Coming!" Jeannie shouted. As her footsteps approached, his heart rate sped up in the anticipation of seeing her again. In the short time she took to scrape the chain back, he convinced himself it was the thrill of the assignment and nothing more.

Her door opened and light from her apartment flooded the hallway. Whether it was the enticing smell or the smile on her face at seeing him, Thorne was the happiest he'd been since their breakfast at El Chico's.

He dampened the feeling down and brushed past her. "Something smells good in here. I had to see what it is."