Baby, You're Mine. Peggy MorelandЧитать онлайн книгу.
href="#ulink_cef94afb-4fb5-5b9d-8471-11590e909a57">Chapter 3
Today, Georgia wore a long-sleeved, soft orange T-shirt with a flowing black tank top over that. Carson walked beside her on their way to the plane. Her top had subtle floral embroidery and all her accessories matched the soft orange. Flower earrings, bracelet, purse, belt. Black skinny jeans that had him checking out her butt too often.
“How many suitcases did you bring?” he asked.
“Huh?” She stopped at their gate. People glided by on the moving walkway. A woman passed with a pet carrier.
He indicated her purse. “You seem to have a purse for every outfit.”
“I have a suitcase for those and shoes. And one more for the rest.”
“For someone who doesn’t like money, you sure have a knack for fashion.”
She cocked her head. “Shopping is a fun stress reliever for me. And I like putting outfits together. It doesn’t have anything to do with money.”
He gave her a skeptical look and then guided her to the seats in front of their gate. She must spend a wad each time she went out to buy a new outfit. He couldn’t wait to see what she wore next—and he disagreed. A woman could shop a lot more with money. She had to have money to put those outfits together. Was she being defiant when she said it had nothing to do with money? Suppressing an inner craving to spend, spend, spend? He could have some fun with that, shower her with luxuries and see if she liked it. Starting with right now, as soon as they boarded.
Georgia slipped her purse off her shoulder and placed it on the seat next to her. He’d checked his carry-on since she’d had two bags. They were traveling light as a result. He sat beside her, trying not to overtly notice her thigh in the snug jeans as she crossed one sexy leg over the other.
“Why do you have to meet with your ex-commander?”
So far she hadn’t tried to pry information out of him. He’d told her they’d stop in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, first, before heading to Raleigh, and that was all. Now he realized she’d strategically waited until she had him alone. Maybe now she could get him to talk.
“He’s got some things he wants to discuss in person about my last mission and since the mission was classified, we have to meet in a SCIF. Sergeant Major Mark Copeland of the 2nd Marine Special Operations Battalion was a hands-on kind of man and had been upset over the failed mission.”
“What’s a skiff?”
“Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a secure office or meeting facility where classified information can be processed or discussed.”
As she tipped her head to the side and smiled her intrigue, her dark red hair slipped down from her shoulder, shiny and thick. “You have a clearance?”
Was he ruining her disparaging opinion of him? “Top secret.”
“Why do you think that man who shot at you is connected to your mission?”
He couldn’t discuss most of it. “If you had a clearance, I could bring you to my meeting and tell you.”
“Does Whit have a clearance?”
He’d discussed everything with Whit. “Yes.” AdAir Corp had a SCIF on-site. Carson could have talked to his commander from there, but his commander wanted him to meet in person because he had some intel to share. That meant they’d continued their surveillance after Carson had come home. He was encouraged by that. He’d had a hard time leaving after the mission in Myanmar failed.
“Why didn’t your mission go as planned?” she asked.
“We were discovered,” he said. “To this day, we don’t know how.” That was pretty much all he could say.
“You were attacked?”
“Yes.” His mind started wandering where he didn’t want it. Seeing Georgia catching the change in him, he faced forward and hoped she’d drop the subject.
“What happened?”
“It’s classified.”
She eyed him awhile, her smart librarian brain adding things up. “Not all of it’s classified.”
No, but he still wasn’t going to talk about it.
“Did your father know you were shot?”
He wondered why she would ask such a question. “Yes. He was killed after that.” He recalled the last conversation he’d had with him. He had still been in the hospital and his father had called, insisting on speaking with him.
You get shot and I have to get a call from your commander? Reginald had roared. Were you going to tell me?
I was shot, Carson had replied, thinking to himself, Why did he even care?
His father’s apparent offense was more about control. He’d been angry that Carson wouldn’t have called to let him know that he’d been shot.
I told you joining the Marines was a mistake. When are they sending you home?
I’m not coming home.
I’ve had enough of your attitude, Carson. You’re coming home where you belong.
I don’t belong anywhere near you.
At that time he hadn’t known he’d be honorably discharged from the Marines. The next day, the doctors had informed him he’d be lucky to walk again. Hearing that had been a tough blow. He’d denied it flat out at first. Not walk? Screw that! He’d walk again, damn it. It had been a long recovery. Once he was released from the hospital, he’d begun a rigorous physical therapy regimen. And he had walked again. But the injury was too severe to pass the physical requirements for the MARSOC. Finally, he’d had to accept his fate. He would never be a part of a Marine Special Forces team again.
It was then that he’d gotten the call from Whit.
“Carson. I’m sorry to tell you this over the phone, but Dad is dead...”
The last words he’d ever spoken to his father were the first that had entered his mind right then. As Whit explained the murder, all he could think was, I don’t belong anywhere near you.
The guilt had only stung sharper when the reading of the will had revealed Reginald’s secret agony that had turned him into a heartless businessman.
“Why don’t you want to take over his company?” Georgia asked.
He looked at her and realized she’d been watching him while he reminisced. “I’m not an executive.”
With the subtle but dubious lift of her eyebrows, she said, “But you said you can’t be a marine anymore.”
She was fishing for something. “I’m still not an executive.”
“Have you ever worked at your father’s company before?”
“Oh, yeah. He forced Whit and I to work there as soon as we turned sixteen. When I was eighteen I didn’t have to do what he told me anymore.” Looking back, he was frankly amazed his dad hadn’t cut him out of his will. And then again, not. Now that he knew about Jackson, he could understand how his father would choose not to turn away from his kids, no matter how distant he’d been. Somewhere inside him had been a father who’d loved all of his children.
“And you’ve been helping Whit, haven’t you?”
“Occasionally.” He’d stepped in and helped after Reginald was murdered. He knew the business. He’d grown up around it. But being an executive...just like his father... It just ate at him. Maybe it was residual from when he was younger. Rebelling had become habitual. Or maybe he still hadn’t forgiven his father for not being a father. It wasn’t his or Whit’s or Landry’s fault that Jackson had been