Jean-Marc Lespasse caught up with Connie Carson on the concourse at Tampa International Airport. He smiled as he saw her volley, with a sweet smile, the attentions of one of the men who had tried to woo her on the flight from Nice through Paris. From his seat several rows behind her, Lespasse watched as one male passenger after another found a reason to approach her. Connie wasn’t the only appealing woman on the flight, but she glowed with that sort of naïve, fun-loving self-confidence men were drawn to like bees to bluebells. As was her way, she managed to tell each one to buzz off with so much charm that they hadn’t realized they’d been swatted.

“There you are!” she cheered as Lespasse approached.

The last man quickly withdrew and Carson lifted her bloated leather satchel, hoisting the strap on her shoulder. She hooked her arm in his and they strode off, the picture of a happy couple.

“Check your PDA?” she asked.

“So, I guess I’m the lucky fellow—”

“Don’t start, Jean-Marc. A few of those boys had me searching for a parachute.” She released his arm.

“You get the same message from Wiki?”

She nodded. “Big files.”

“I’ll use a computer in the executive lounge,” he said.

“And I’ll get the rental car. Give me your bag.”

“Connie—”

“Give me the damned bag.”

Lespasse had seen Carson dislocate a man’s nose with a blow so swift he would’ve sworn her hand never left her side.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

They met 30 minutes later, Carson leaning against the hood of a Prius in a No-Standing zone. “Where to?” she asked, as she opened the passenger door.

When Carson jumped behind the wheel, Lespasse read from his notes. “Get on Interstate Two Hundred Seventy-Five East.”

She laughed as she pulled from the curb. “I love how you say that. ‘Interstate Two Hundred Seventy-Five East.’ All formal and such.”

“I-Two Hundred Seventy Five East is better?”

“Two Seventy-Five East will do. How long have you lived in America, Jean-Marc?”

“Almost ten years,” he said. He slid on his sunglasses as they drove into stark sunlight beyond the airport grounds. Tampa was as bright as Nice had been.

“Ten years and it’s still ‘Interstate’ and all that?”

“Tired, I guess. Anxious.”

“Same,” she said. “You came here to work with the Colonel?”

“Well, I had worked with him before. But, yes, Harold Middleton was the reason I came to America.”

“You could’ve stayed in France.”

“My wife preferred North Carolina.”

“Your wife? Jean-Marc, I didn’t know you were married.” She looked at the third finger on his left hand. No ring.

“We worked together at Technologie de Demain—”

“Your company.”