Wed in Wyoming. Allison LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
he might as well have been sixteen given the way he kept getting preoccupied with that narrow bed where she was gingerly perched.
“I’m a serious person,” she said around a not-entirely delicate mouthful of bread. “In a serious business.”
“The paramedic business or the spy business?”
“I’m not a spy.”
He couldn’t help smiling again. “Sugar, you’re a courier for one of the biggies in the business.” He tipped more wine into his glass. “And your family just keeps getting pulled in, one way or the other.”
“You ought to know. You’re the one who approached me in the first place to be a courier.”
He couldn’t dispute that. “Still. Don’t you think it’s a little…unusual?”
She didn’t even blink. “You mean how many of us are involved with Hollins-Winword?”
At least she wasn’t as in the dark as her cousin Sarah had been. Sarah’d had no clue that she wasn’t the only one in her family hooked up with Hollins-Winword; probably wouldn’t know even now if her brand-spanking-new husband, Max Scalise, hadn’t tramped one of his own investigations right through Brody’s assignment to protect a little girl named Megan. They’d been staying in a safe house in Weaver, set up by Sarah, who mostly made her living as a school teacher when she wasn’t making an occasional “arrangement” for Hollins-Winword. But she’d only learned that her uncles were involved. She hadn’t learned about Angeline.
Or the others in that extensive family tree.
And now, he’d heard that Sarah and Max were in the process of adopting Megan.
The child’s parents had been brutally murdered, but she’d at least have some chance at regaining a decent life with decent people raising her.
She’d have a family.
The thought was darker than it should have been and he reached for the wine pitcher again, only to find it empty. Thirty-eight years old, horny, thirsty and feeling envious of some innocent, eight-year-old kid.
What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been several years older than Megan had been when his real family had been blown to bits. As for the “family” he’d had after that, he’d hardly term a hard-assed workaholic like Cole as real.
Sitting across from him on the foot of the bed, Angeline had spread out the napkin over her lap, and as he watched, she delicately brushed her fingertips over the cloth.
She had the kind of hourglass figure that men fantasized over, a Madonna’s face and fingers that looked like they should have nothing more strenuous to do than hold up beautifully jeweled rings. Yet twice now, he’d found her toiling away in the ass-backwards village of Puerto Grande.
That first time, five years ago, his usual courier had missed the meet and Brody had been encouraged to develop a new asset. And oh, by the way, isn’t it convenient that there’s a pretty American in Puerto Grande whose family is already involved with Hollins-Winword.
The situation had always struck Brody as too convenient for words. But he’d gone ahead and done his job. He’d talked her into the gig, passed off the intel that she was to relay later when she was back in the States and voilà, her career as a courier was born.
The second time he’d found her working like a dog in Puerto Grande had been, of course, just that morning. He’d called in to his handler at Hollins-Winword to find out who he could pull in fast to assist him on getting the kids, only to learn that, lo and behold, once again the lovely Señorita Clay was right there in Puerto Grande. She would be the closest, quickest—albeit unlikely—assistant. And one he’d had to think hard and fast whether he wanted joining him or not. Desperate measures, though, had him going for it.
Not that it had been easy to convince her to join him. As she’d said, she wasn’t a field agent. Not even close. Her experience in such matters was nil. And she had her commitment to All-Med to honor. The small medical team was administering vaccinations and treating various ailments of the villagers around Puerto Grande.
He’d had to promise that another volunteer would arrive shortly to replace her before she’d made one single move toward his Jeep.
She was definitely a woman of contrasts.
When she wasn’t pulling some humanitarian aid stint, she worked the streets of Atlanta as a paramedic, yet usually talked longingly of the place she’d grown up in: Wyoming.
And there wasn’t a single ring—jeweled or otherwise—on those long, elegant fingers, except the wedding band that had been his mother’s.
Usually, he kept it tucked in his wallet. As a reminder never to get too complacent with life. Too comfortable. Too settled.
Considering how settled he’d been becoming lately, maybe it was a timely reminder.
“Do you remember much of Santo Marguerite?”
Her lashes lifted as she gave him a startled look. Just as quickly, those lush lashes lowered again. She lifted one shoulder and the crisp fabric of the tunic slipped a few inches, giving him a better view of the hollow at the base of that long, lovely throat.
“I remember it a little.” She pleated the edge of the napkin on her lap then leaned forward to retrieve the wineglass that she’d set on the floor. “What do you even know about the place? It no longer exists.”
She had a point. What he knew he’d learned from her file at Hollins-Winword. The dwellings of the village that had been destroyed were never rebuilt, though Sandoval had been in control of the land for the last few decades, guarding it with the violent zealousness he was known for.
She evidently took his silence as his answer. “Where did you grow up?” she asked.
“Here and there.” He straightened from his perch and stretched. Talking about her past was one thing. His was off-limits. Even he tried not to think about it. “You figure that bed’s strong enough to hold us both?”
Her eyes widened a fraction before she looked away again. “I…I’m used to roughing it in camps and such. I can sleep on the floor.”
“Hardly sounds like a wifely thing to do.”
She scrunched up the napkin and slid off the bed. “I’m not a wife.”
“Shh.” There was something wrong with the way he took such pleasure in seeing the dusky color climb into that satin-smooth complexion of hers.
Her lips firmed. “You’ve already established that these walls don’t have ears.”
“So I did. Kind of a pity, really. I was looking forward to seeing how well we played mister and missus for the night.”
Giving him a frozen look, she polished off the rest of her wine. Then she just stood there, staring at the blank wall ahead of her.
In the candlelight, her hair looked dark as ink against the pale cloth of her tunic, though he knew in the sunlight, those long gleaming locks were not really black at all, but a deep, lustrous brown.
“Whatcha thinking?”
She didn’t look back at him. She folded her arms over her chest. Her fingertips curled around her upper arms and he saw the wink of candlelight catching in the gold wedding band. “I wonder why they don’t have windows here.”
“Considering the way the weather was blowing out there, that’s probably a blessing about now.” He watched her back for a moment. The tunic reached well below her hips, and though he’d always had the impression of her being very tall, he knew that it was merely the way she carried herself. Not that she was short, but he had her by a good seven or eight inches. And there, in that tunic and pants, her feet bare, she seemed much less Wonder Woman than usual.
Vulnerable. That was the word.
She looked vulnerable.