An award-winning author, Jordan McCollum can’t resist a story where good defeats evil and true love conquers all. She writes stories about love, lies, secrets and sometimes spies, and she helps writers craft their fiction to make their stories and their prose more engaging.
All four of the novels in her Spy Another Day series were named finalists in the Whitney Awards, a juried prize. Spy by Night is a prequel to the other novels in the series.
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"After watching her parents’ marriage crash and burn, CIA operative Talia Reynolds doesn’t believe in “happily ever afters.” Besides, her job entails eighty-hour weeks, juggling a dozen covers and disguises, andtracking down a dangerous Russian spy ring. She hardly has time for romantic
entanglements, even if she could let her guard down enough to get close to
anyone. But all the rules she lives by could be broken when she meets aerospace
engineer Danny Fluker.
Danny moved to Canada for a great job — and a chance to start over after a bad breakup. Dating definitely isn’t in his plans...
until beautiful and enigmatic Talia throws a perfect storm right in his flight path. When he catches a glimpse of the real woman behind her façade, he has to get to know her better.
until beautiful and enigmatic Talia throws a perfect storm right in his flight path. When he catches a glimpse of the real woman behind her façade, he has to get to know her better.
Talia has to find a Russian spymaster before he figures out she’s not who she claims, and failing to keep her two lives separate in the process could mean the death of more than just her budding relationship. Danny has to decide if a future with Talia — and facing the past — is worth the risk of getting hurt again. If they can break through the barriers keeping them apart (and avoid a major international catastrophe), they just might have a chance at being happy together."
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Excerpt:
I don't do romance. After all, when your job involves lying to almost everyone, you aren’t set up for success on that front—and emotional entanglements have never helped me do said job. On a personal level, it’s much, much safer to spy alone.
Fortunately, feelings have nothing to do with the allure (and lust) of Latin dance, or the fluttering in my stomach, or the guy escorting me onto the dance floor. Elliott’s tall, dark and handsome enough to make James Bond
jealous—and he shoots a wink my way. I skip my normal eye-roll, because I need the luck. We’ve been working for weeks, and if we don’t look legit in these next make-or-break minutes, the whole thing will be a waste. My partner and I take our places, and the smirk passes unspoken between us.
jealous—and he shoots a wink my way. I skip my normal eye-roll, because I need the luck. We’ve been working for weeks, and if we don’t look legit in these next make-or-break minutes, the whole thing will be a waste. My partner and I take our places, and the smirk passes unspoken between us.
Neither of us look at the couple to my left: Galina Isayeva and Vasily Loban, the Russian spymaster we’re tracking. I know, an amateur ballroom competition in Canada might be the last place you’d expect a Russian spy, but everyone needs a hobby—and his day job as a barber in Embassy Row gives him plenty of access to prime targets. For now, I need to focus on my cover and my partner.
Most of the time, the real jobs of people like Elliott Monteith and Talia Reynolds (that would be us) look very little like the exciting lives of Bond or Bauer or Bourne, especially in Canada. But once in a while, being a spy is a scene right out of a movie. Today that scene’s a ballroom dance sequence—but instead of blending into a sophisticated, glamorous reception, I’m on display to be criticized and scrutinized. I may be covered in sparkly flesh-toned spandex from ankle to wrist, and yet I feel completely naked.
I take a deep breath that smells of musty high school gym and anticipation. A couple semesters of Latin dance versus the top dancers in Canada? I’d be lucky to be naked (because nobody would be paying attention to my technique). We may not confront many direct threats in Canada, but today’s biggest danger is to my dignity—and I haven’t even started dancing.
“First,” the melodramatic Moviefone-wannabe announcer booms over the public address system, “the cha cha.”
The music starts. My heart stops. Show time.
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