Ниндзя продаж. Тайное искусство больших побед. Ларри Кендалл

      Well, no wonder he’d started to act like James Bond!

      “I wouldn’t have told you this,” he continued, “but I need your help. I need an ally inside this house.” Reaching down, he picked up a dark briefcase. She hadn’t even noticed it.

      While she watched silently, he opened the case. She glimpsed a manila envelope, in which appeared to be a number of papers and photos, with notations in a foreign language. The case also contained some sort of radio and electronic devices.

      Miles pulled out a photograph, placed it on the tabletop, and pushed it toward her with the tip of one finger. “Boris Rockinova. Ex-KGB agent turned international arms dealer.”

      Gwen stared at the picture, a black-and-white 8 x 10 of a middle-aged, balding man. Normal-looking. He could have bagged her groceries or sold her a car and she’d never have given him a second look. She raised a doubtful brow. “He’s a terrorist type?”

      Miles nodded, retaining his serious expression.

      “And you think he might be here? In Derryville?” She heard the skepticism in her own voice.

      “I think he might be right here…in this house. Our contacts say he’s set up a meeting here this weekend with potential buyers, including a high-level member of an organized crime group from New York. We don’t have the identity, but we know he’s working with a woman. This woman, code name Miss Jones, is supposed to make contact with him to arrange a weapons buy in preparation for a crime planned for the port of New York.”

      “Who is she?”

      “Not sure.” He glanced down at her body. “But I know she’s not you. The communication we intercepted says the woman will identify herself to our suspect by her code name, Miss Jones, and will reveal a star-shaped birthmark on her right collarbone.”

      She followed his stare toward her own low neckline and grinned. “Good thing I’m not wearing a turtleneck.”

      He nodded, not cracking a smile, still intense and secretive, focused on his mission. “A very good thing.”

      The heat in his stare told her he wasn’t merely talking about any phantom birthmark. She swallowed hard, trying to focus on their conversation, not the attraction still snapping between them. “How can you know all this?”

      “We know a lot about the people in this inn this weekend,” he admitted. “That elderly couple?”

      She raised an inquiring brow.

      “Counterfeiters.”

      Her jaw dropped.

      “Double-check any money they give you.”

      “They paid with a credit card,” she murmured, still not fully able to wrap her mind around this whole crazy scenario.

      Maybe this guy was loco, maybe he was playing games with her, perhaps he was even an escapee from a mental institution. Maybe he was playing a big fat Halloween prank. Her instincts said there was more to this story than he’d said, that his charm hid as much as it revealed. Conventional wisdom told her she should be on the phone, out the door or arming herself with something sharp. That’s certainly what any quiet turtle would do.

      To hell with that.

      She forced the thought away. Gwen wasn’t stupid enough to react foolishly out of a need to do something reckless and exciting for a change. But something about his story rang true, though she suspected he hadn’t told her everything. Perhaps he was telling her only as much of the truth as he could.

      He had identification, a briefcase full of documents and, if she wasn’t mistaken, what looked like surveillance equipment. He was also intense and charming, suave and smooth-talking. Obviously intelligent, adept at slipping in the shadows.

      The CIA, or the Shop, or whatever it was, could do worse. So it wasn’t entirely impossible. And if there was any chance, whatsoever, that Miles was indeed who he said he was, she might have a dangerous criminal sleeping under her roof.

      An international arms dealer, along with the ghosts, was enough to ruin any fledgling inn. At least for the 51.5 weeks of the year not involving Halloween. And that didn’t even take into account the whole “being murdered in her bed” scenario.

      “All right,” she finally said. Her voice sounded both a little skeptical and a little afraid. “I’ll help you, Mr. Stone. I’ll be your ally this weekend. Tell me what you want me to do.”