The Admiral's Bride
Washington, D.C., today
The Pentagon.
Dr. Zoe Lange gazed out the window of the limo as the driver pulled up to the Pentagon.
Damn.
She was way underdressed.
Her boss, Patrick Sullivan, had told her only that she was a candidate for an important and potentially long-term assignment. Zoe had figured that appropriate dress for such a meeting meant comfortable — blue jeans, running shoes, a T-shirt with a little blue flower print, and hardly any makeup. She was who she was, after all. If she were going to join a long-term mission, everyone might as well know exactly what to expect right from the start.
She didn't dress up unless she had to.
Unless she were going someplace like, oh, say, the Pentagon.
If she'd known she was coming to the Pentagon, she would have put on her skintight black cat suit, her three-inch heels, dark red lipstick and worn her long blond hair in some kind of fancy French braid, rather than this high-school cheerleader ponytail she was wearing. Because men in the military tended to think female agents who looked like Emma Peel or one of James Bond ... read full excerpt from: The Admiral's Bride ebook
