Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel Read online

  Q: What do you get when you cross

  Avon Ladies with Charlie’s Angels?

  A: A world-class intelligence organization run

  by women who really know their foundation.

  When Nikki Lanier signs up as a cosmetics rep at Carrie Mae, it’s hardly her idea of a dream job. With a degree in linguistics and a hard-core workout regimen, the twenty-six-year-old redhead once had hopes for a real career. But unemployed and desperate to escape life at home with her nagging mother, she’ll try anything—even selling makeup to housewives. Soon, Nikki learns that the powder and lipstick are simply cover-up for the Carrie Mae Foundation: a secret organization of international espionage and high-tech mascara founded for the purpose of “helping women everywhere.”

  Whisked off to Thailand with the legendary Carrie Mae agent Val Robinson, Nikki is soon in over her head. Between investigating the abduction of a human rights activist, tracking down a murderous arms dealer, keeping up with her wildly dangerous new partner, and occasionally trying to date a hunk who may or may not be CIA, Nikki has to use all the courage and cosmetic technology she’s got to bring down the bad guys and get out alive.

  With the support of the colorful Carrie Mae crew, Nikki will overcome even the most harrowing obstacles—including incessant phone calls from her mother—or die trying.

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Bethany Maines

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Atria Paperback edition March 2010

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Maines, Bethany.

  Bulletproof mascara / Bethany Maines.—1st Atria paperback ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Women spies—Fiction. 2. Cosmetics industry—Fiction.

  3. Undercover operations—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.A34964B85 2010

  813'.6—dc22 2009014250

  ISBN 978-0-7432-9277-1

  ISBN 978-1-4165-4635-1 (ebook)

  To Jennae

  PROLOGUE • CANADA

  After the Interview

  “Excuse me, Nicole?” asked the man next to her at the bar in a voice like Jack Daniel’s whiskey. “Would you care to be my wife?”

  Nicole Lanier looked up from the depths of her vodka martini–drenched misery. The man was holding her passport, plucked from the debris scattered by her purse when she’d flung it down in fury on the hotel bar. She had noticed him earlier, despite her headlong rush to become an alcoholic. He had been speaking into a cell phone, his back to her—a solid wall of well-tailored gray suit—his voice set at pissed-off growl. He flipped her passport closed and held it out to her with a friendly smile.

  “It’s Nikki,” she corrected, dazedly smiling back at him.

  “Nikki,” he said, with a nod. His eyes were a warm dark brown, sleepy yet observant. She tried to guess his ethnicity. Not quite black or Italian or Hispanic or white. Not quite anything in particular, but maybe a lot of everything.

  “The question stands. Would you care to be my wife?” The question didn’t make any more sense the second time around, but it sounded good coming from him.

  “Sorry?” asked Nikki, uncertain if she had heard him correctly or if the vodka was just now hitting bottom.

  “Just over my left shoulder there’s a man out on the terrace talking to a man in golf clothes.”

  Nikki wondered if he had escaped from the group home. Brushing an errant red curl back behind her ear, she leaned to her right and looked through the tall windows of the hotel bar. There was indeed a pair of men on the terrace, one in a navy suit, the other covered in an obscene amount of plaid. She returned her gaze to the stranger with a questioning look.

  “Yes?” she prodded, one of her eyebrows raised in a way that made her strongly resemble her father when he was being sarcastic: it was a look her mother hated.

  “His name is Jirair Sarkassian. He’s a very big man in shipping and a very important asset to my company. When he’s done talking to the man in golf clothes he’s going to come in here, shake my hand, and ask to meet my wife.”

  “So why don’t you introduce him to your wife?” asked Nikki.

  “I haven’t got a wife.”

  “But he thinks you do?”

  “I told him I did.”

  “Then I can see why he would think you do. But why would you tell him that you’re married if you’re not?”

  “Because he has a sister and I have a boss who believes in customer service.”

  “Lots of men have sisters; that doesn’t mean you have to get married. She can’t be that bad,” Nikki objected reasonably.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d met his sister. She’s . . . difficult.”

  “Oh.” Nikki tried to imagine what kind of woman would be so intolerable. “Is she horse-faced or something?” For guys, difficult was usually code for either ugly or smart.

  “Ha. I wish she were horse-faced. Horse-faced I wouldn’t mind. Look,” he said, running his fingers over the closely cropped stubble of his brown hair, “I had a friend who was going to help me with this, but she’s stuck in traffic. All you have to do is shake his hand, say, ‘Nice to meet you,’ and then make a graceful exit.”

  “What if he wants me to have lunch with you or something?” Nikki asked, taking a sip of her martini.

  “Tell him you have plans and can’t possibly join us.”

  For a moment, Nikki was tempted. What was five minutes of her time, anyway? She reached for her drink again, and as she leaned forward she saw the dark silhouette of a shoulder holster peeking from the man’s suit jacket, and in her mind the headline “Canadian Gangster Kills Girl in Bar” splashed across the top of a newspaper. Then she shook her head; she couldn’t imagine anything that sounded less Canadian than gangster. He was probably just an overvigilant businessman, but getting involved with a guy who packed concealed weapons was not on her list of things to do that day, no matter how good-looking he was. Pretending she hadn’t noticed the gun, Nikki picked up her martini and finished it in one long swallow. Setting it down firmly, so that it made a solid sound on the bar, she slid it into place next to her other empty glasses.

  “Sorry, buddy,” she said, counting out cash for the bill and tip, then shoveling the contents of her purse back into her bag. “I’ll give you an A-plus for bravado, but a C-minus for believability. I mean, come on, I wouldn’t even buy that from a romance novel.”

  The bartender came back, and Nikki started to push the pile of money across the bar, but the stranger put his hand firmly over hers.

  The shock of physical contact ran from his fing
ers and through her arm like an electrical current, holding Nikki paralyzed. She found herself staring at their hands where they overlapped on top of the pink Canadian money.

  “Put it on my room tab,” the man told the bartender, moving his hand away. Nikki wanted to grab it back and hold on—it had felt safe and comfortable. She felt an irrational twinge of anger at herself for wanting to hold a stranger’s hand.

  “No, really,” she said, transferring her irritation to the man. “I don’t need you to pay for me.” Buying drinks was a way to buy leverage, and Nikki wasn’t going to fall for it. The brown-eyed man gave a nod to the bartender, who shrugged and walked off without her money. Nikki felt a surge of exasperation as she stuffed her cash back into her purse, stubbornly leaving the tip. Why did guys always stick together?

  She shut her purse with a fierce snap and stepped off the barstool. The ground took an odd lurch as she stepped on it, but she still had one hand on the bar for stability, so she didn’t think it showed. Maybe finishing that martini hadn’t been the best idea.

  “I’m sorry, Nikki,” the man said, perhaps sensing he had offended her somehow, “but I’m really in a bind here. Come on. It’ll only take a minute, and you’ll be saving my bacon.” And then he smiled. Nikki found herself smiling back.

  “Please,” he said, sensing her hesitation, and touching her lightly on the arm. It wasn’t a touch as much as a suggestion of contact. His fingers barely brushed the fabric of her sleeve, and inside her stylish yet businesslike jacket, Nikki felt the hairs on her arm stand upright. “No risk, no fun,” the man said, with an expression that suggested he was both of those things.

  Nikki felt herself waver. She shook her head, trying to clear it and firm up her resolve. Everything seemed a little fuzzy. She didn’t want to do this, did she?

  CALIFORNIA I

  Burbank

  The problem with Burbank, Nikki decided, was that it wasn’t in black-and-white. The low-slung airport was perfect for some tragic forties drama; they even wheeled the stairs up to the doors of the airplane. All she needed now was a man in a trench coat.

  She ignored that train of thought and exited the plane, swinging her backpack up onto her shoulders; she staggered a little as it connected firmly with her back. Her feet followed the arrows on the baggage claim signs while her head swiveled around, taking in the scene. Nobody was wearing a trench coat; flip-flops and micro jean skirts seemed to be the order of the day, hardly the Bogart-esque style Nikki had been picturing.

  Since she was already carrying all of her belongings on her back, she avoided the mob of people who were lining up for the baggage carousel and looked around for someone holding a card with her name on it. But no one in the crowd seemed to be looking for her. Nikki found a bench near the double sliding doors and checked her watch. She was a little bit early.

  Sitting down, she took out her cell phone and turned the power back on. It cycled through the On sequence and then declared that she had three new messages. Nikki dialed voice mail and then dutifully listened to each message from her mother. It was raining in Tacoma, where had she put the remote, and hadn’t Nikki landed yet? Nikki hit Erase following each message and flipped her phone closed, determined not to return any of the calls. Her resolution was rendered obsolete when the phone rang. Nikki picked it up with a sigh.

  “I thought you only packed that ridiculous backpack,” said Nell without preamble.

  “I did,” Nikki agreed, knowing exactly what her mother was leading up to.

  “I was just in your room, and the closet is empty. Where are all your clothes?”

  “Most of them were old,” Nikki said, stalling for time. “I had stuff in there from high school.”

  “There were some expensive clothes in there! What did you do with them?”

  “Took them to the Goodwill,” Nikki mumbled.

  “What?!” The screech echoed across the airwaves, and Nikki held the phone away from her ear as Nell continued at full volume. “I paid for those clothes! You had no right . . .” Nikki held the phone out even farther until the words were just a high-pitched jumble. When the pitch dropped, she put the phone back to her ear.

  “I am very disappointed in you,” Nell said.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Nikki said, paying more attention to the passing crowd than to the conversation. She knew the script by heart.

  “Hmph,” Nell snorted, not placated by Nikki’s rote apology. “I suppose you took the remote to the Goodwill, too?”

  “No. Did you look under the couch cushions?”

  “Yes!” she snapped. “And in the drawer and under the couch. I may not have gone to college like some people, but I’m not an idiot.”

  “How about under the newspaper? Sometimes it gets lost under the newspaper.” Nikki ignored the jab about college; it was barely a two on the Nell scale of snide. There was a silence on the other end of the line, and Nikki knew her mother hadn’t looked under the newspaper.

  “That’s a stupid place to put the remote. I don’t know why it would be there.”

  “I agree, but sometimes the paper just gets spread out over it on accident.” Nikki kept her tone soothing. She heard rustling in the background, followed by a click and the theme song from Jeopardy.

  “Are you sure about this job?” asked Nell, changing subjects. “I thought you wanted something in your field. Selling cosmetics clearly isn’t something you’re trained for.”

  “Linguistics jobs weren’t exactly hopping out of the woodwork, and besides, I won’t be selling cosmetics. The Carrie Mae charity foundation is different, and it’s a really good opportunity.”

  “Do you even know what you’re going to be doing?”

  “Well, no,” said Nikki, squirming, “but that’s why I’m going to do training.”

  “I just think it’s weird, is all. I mean, why you? Why did Mrs. Merrivel offer you a job?” Nikki didn’t know why Mrs. Merrivel, the Carrie Mae recruiter, had offered her the job, but she wasn’t about to admit that to her mother.

  “OK, well, I’m at the airport now, and I have to look for my ride. Gotta go.”

  “Well, you could call me next time. I’m only up here worrying myself to death about your safety.” She could hear Alex Trebek introducing the contestants.

  “Yeah, I’ll call. Bye, Mom.”

  “Bye, sweetie.”

  Nikki hung up the phone and ran her fingers through her hair. Worse than simply irritating her, Nell always managed to plant the seed of doubt that Nikki had spent careful time weeding out. Today was no exception.

  She checked her watch again and scanned the room: still no one. She was starting to sweat.

  Another unbearable minute ticked past, and then an older man in a rumpled green Tommy Bahama shirt and navy slacks entered through the doors opposite her. He was tall and fit and, but for the wrinkled shirt, managed to look distinguished. Pausing by Nikki, he placed his foot on a bench and used his bent leg as a steady writing surface for a yellow legal pad. He paused with pen poised over the paper and then flipped over his left hand to consult something written on the palm. From where she was sitting Nikki could see that it was “Nikki Lanier.”

  “Excuse me,” Nikki said.

  “Just a sec,” the man said without looking up. “Got to get this spelled correctly.”

  “It’s i, then e,” corrected Nikki.

  “Thanks,” the man said, and then held the sign out at arm’s length to view the results. “Now, then,” he said, tucking the pad under his arm and putting the cap on the pen. “What can I do for you, young lady?” Nikki smiled. She liked this man; he had an absent-minded professor sort of aura.

  “I think I’m who you’re supposed to meet.”

  “You are?” asked the man with surprise. He flipped his hand over and read it again. “You’re Nikki Lanier?”

  “Yes,” said Nikki, smiling again. “That’s me.”

  “Oh,” the man said, and pulled out the pad with her name on it. “Well, I guess I don’t need this.
” He seemed a little disappointed.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Oh, well,” said the man, shrugging it off. “Should we get your luggage?” he asked, looking around as if expecting suitcases to appear.

  “Nope, this is it,” Nikki said, grabbing her pack and standing up.

  “Good heavens,” the man said. “Are you sure you’re with Carrie Mae?”

  “Sort of,” said Nikki. “I’ve never actually sold anything.”

  “Ah, well,” the man said kindly, “some people aren’t meant for sales.” He smiled, and Nikki felt a sudden relief. It was true; she wasn’t meant for sales, and that was just that.

  “Well, this way,” said the man, and walked back toward the doors.

  Nikki followed him out into the blinding California sunshine and toward the parking garage. His car was a large black Mercedes and spotless—a power car. Nikki glanced at her escort. His lanky figure was set off by a head full of white hair, and he carried himself with confidence; he was obviously not a mere chauffeur.

  “Just shove those clubs over and put your pack in the trunk,” said the man, popping the trunk with his key fob as they reached the car. “It’s why I’m late,” he said, unlocking the car. “I was playing a few holes with the fellas, and the game ran long.” Nikki moved the golf clubs as instructed and went to sit in the passenger seat.

  “Say,” the man said as she closed the door. “I guess I know your name, but you probably haven’t a clue who I am.”

  “Well, no,” confessed Nikki.

  “John Merrivel,” said the man, and they shook hands. “And you should be more careful about wandering off with strange men.” Nikki grimaced unhappily and sighed. He was absolutely right, and after her conversation with Mrs. Merrivel, she’d promised herself that she would be less trusting and more vigilant.

  “Mrs. Merrivel said that, too. Apparently, I wasn’t listening very carefully.”

  Mr. Merrivel laughed. “Well, some things take practice,” he said. “But what I want to know is why not wandering off with strange men is something you need to practice?” he asked quizzically.