Seven Days To Forever. Ingrid WeaverЧитать онлайн книгу.
plant,” she finished.
Flynn directed his flashlight upward. A branch thick with long, wavy leaves hung at head level. He traced the branch to an enormous plant that grew from a pot beside one wall. “What the…”
“It’s an avocado plant,” she repeated. “I started it from a pit. I know it’s in the way but it does best in that spot. Are you all right?”
“Sure. I managed to fight it off.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not carnivorous.”
Flynn heard a smile in her voice. It reminded him of the private smile that had so intrigued him before. He swept his flashlight around the room, this time aiming the beam higher. A pair of monster plants hulked under the window. No, it was a glass door, not a window. Probably led to a balcony, but he hadn’t been able to see it before because of the plants. More pots of foliage clustered on the top of a low bookshelf. “I see you’re good at growing things.”
“It’s my hobby.”
“I’m a civil war buff myself,” he said, remembering what Sarah had said about Abigail’s library books. Maybe he was piling it on a bit too thick, but he’d do whatever it took to keep her off guard.
“I enjoy studying history, too,” she said. “I believe there are worthwhile lessons to be learned from the past. As long as a person is smart enough to remember them,” she added under her breath.
Not a good topic, he decided, hearing the note of thoughtfulness in her voice. He didn’t want her thoughtful. He wanted her off balance. He chuckled. “Let’s not mention history on our birthday, okay? After the day I’ve had, I feel ancient enough already.”
“I know what you mean.” She sighed and moved toward him. “You’ll never find what you’re looking for in this jungle. Better let me help you.”
The flashlight was still aimed high, so when Abigail walked into the beam, it shone directly on her wet blouse. Flynn tried not to look, but it was impossible not to notice how the patches of wetness from her dripping hair had spread. The fabric wasn’t white as he’d first thought, it was the color of ripe melons. Or maybe the fabric’s color was due more to the lush curves it was plastered to, particularly since it turned dark where it clung to her nipples.
And Flynn suddenly realized that the innocent, house-plant-loving, visit-her-folks-on-her-birthday Abigail Locke wasn’t wearing a bra.
He turned the light aside and scowled. She hadn’t provided the peep show deliberately—she must have been in a hurry to get dressed when the lights had gone out.
But he was supposed to be the one distracting her, not the other way around.
Find what you’re looking for, she’d said.
Well, he sure wasn’t here to look for a pair of breasts, however lush and temptingly displayed they might be. He had to find that backpack, he reminded himself. A green backpack. In a jungle of green houseplants.
She touched his arm. “You might as well start in the kitchen. The outlets are easiest to get to there.”
Her touch was soft, hesitant. It was meant impersonally, a practical way of getting his attention in the dark. He felt her warmth through his sleeve, through his skin, right to his bones.
He couldn’t afford to feel anything. He had a job to do. A kid’s life and the political stability of an entire region was resting on the success of this mission. He had to stay focused.
The outlets, she’d said. Right. He took a screwdriver from his tool belt, turned around and followed her to the kitchen.
The receiver in his ear crackled. “O’Toole.”
Flynn was careful to betray no reaction to Redinger’s voice. The radio had been silent since he’d made face-to-face contact with Abigail. The major had been monitoring everything, of course, but for him to risk direct contact, it had to be important.
“A car passed one of the roadblocks one minute ago,” Redinger said. “They flagged it as suspicious so we ran the plates. It was reported stolen this morning.”
Okay. Redinger had to let him know about anything suspicious. This could be coincidence, nothing to do with them.
“Three male occupants.”
Three. The LLA operated in cells of three.
“Sarah turned the parabolic mike on the car. It picked up a snatch of foreign language conversation. She identified it as Ladavian.”
That clinched it. They were about to have company.
“The stairwell is getting busy with tenants making their way downstairs,” the major said. “We’ll run interference there when our visitors arrive, but we still can’t risk a confrontation. I estimate you’ve got five minutes tops.”
So much for the half hour he’d hoped for.
“Better wrap things up, Flynn.”
Sure, find the ransom, get it and Abigail out of this apartment before the terrorists dropped in without compromising the mission by blowing his cover.
Why had he thought he didn’t like things easy?
Chapter 3
Abbie pointed out the electric sockets over her postage-stamp-size counter and in the corner above the baseboard, then stepped to the side as Flynn squeezed past her. His sleeve brushed her arm, and she inhaled a scent that reminded her of an April sunrise. Sharp and earthy, restless, filled with the promise of warmth. The fine hairs on her arm tingled.
She pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to calm the butterflies that were dancing around there. No, they were probably moths. With crusty brown singe marks on the edges of their wings.
She wished she could blame the tickle of excitement on hunger—she was growing later by the minute for dinner and her surprise party—but if it was hunger, it was a kind that couldn’t be satisfied with food.
This was a superficial physical attraction, that’s all, a natural reaction to a physically appealing man. After all, she was a woman in her sexual prime, right? But she’d taken a detour down that road and knew better than to trust it. She didn’t want to acknowledge the bump of her pulse each time she looked at him. She should be ignoring his appearance and regarding him with the same polite, professional distance with which she treated the building superintendent or the cable guy or the men who had delivered her new sofa.
Then why couldn’t she? Was it the sense of intimacy from the semidarkness? Or was it the way Flynn moved? It wasn’t only his appearance that drew her. For a large man, he was light on his feet. He had the total body control of a dancer, making each movement a smoothly coordinated sequence of toned muscles working in harmony. She could easily imagine the way he would be flexing and bulging under that soft flannel shirt and those snug jeans….
But she shouldn’t. No, she wasn’t going to picture his muscles or anything else. She wasn’t going to watch as he hitched up his tool belt and leaned over to look in the corner under the table…even if he did have the firmest, most perfectly formed set of buns Abbie had ever seen.
“No luck in here, ma’am,” he said, straightening up. “Where’s your bedroom?”
The kitchen seemed to shrink as he moved past her. Considering his height and the breadth of his shoulders, she should have felt uncomfortable to be alone in the dark with him, regardless of her personal prejudice against handsome men. Why wasn’t she?
It must have been the way he had mentioned his nephews. Any man who willingly claimed he liked children couldn’t be all bad. He was a history buff, too, which meant they had something else in common. He took his job seriously, so he was a hard worker and would be a good provider. He was hurrying because he didn’t want to disappoint his parents. Everything he’d said would lead an unbiased, unprejudiced observer to assume he was