The formal printed card on the door to the New York apartment read Lt. (jg) Thomas G. Smith, USN. Not that he received many visitors anyway. Most people considered Tom Smith too dull to include in their social calendars.
Joan Turner stood in front of the sign, primping her strawberry-blond hair and using a compact mirror to touch up her lipstick. Smith had, after all, promised to marry her, and so she had a perfect right to show up any time she wanted. She had already caught him spying on his country, so what could be worse?
From inside the apartment, she heard muted shrieks of feminine laughter, a rumba beat pounding from a stereo, trumpets and loud Latin music. This wasn’t what she expected to hear from mild-mannered Smith at all, but when she double-checked the address in her purse, s
