Beverly Long - Agent Bride

That was a happy thought. He was grateful he’d missed the excitement. He’d had plenty recently. It had been less than two weeks ago that he’d barely missed getting up close and personal with enemy fire.

“Anyway, for what it’s worth,” she added, “there’s a hotel about five miles east. They might still have a room.”

He winked at her and smiled. Then he pulled his coat collar up and walked out the door. The cold wind hit him hard.

Crazy. Maybe. But Lena had no idea the number of truly outrageous things he’d done. And usually in the name of protecting national security or preserving American interests.

The hotel might have been a good option if he was continuing on the Interstate. He would be turning off before that, for the final leg of his journey. The two-lane highway that would take him into Ravesville would likely be in worse shape than the Interstate but he had another hour of daylight left and he intended to make good use of that.

If everything went well, he’d be at the house in a couple hours. He thought about calling ahead but disregarded the idea. While Chase would intuitively know that the weather was a mere inconvenience to any former Navy SEAL, he still would worry.

Chase had always taken his big-brother role seriously. They were going to finally have a talk about that. The conversation Cal had been running from for years.

It took Cal ten minutes to brush the snow off his SUV. When he was finally back inside his rented Escalade, it was nice and warm. He pulled out of the parking lot.

The plows had gone through at some point but another couple inches had fallen after that. But he settled in, going a brisk thirty-five miles per hour. Two miles east, he took the exit, realized he’d been right that the secondary roads were in worse shape. It was somewhat reassuring to see wide tracks in the fresh snow. Somebody driving a big truck had made the same turn within the past ten minutes.

The wind was really whipping up the snow. It wasn’t white-out conditions but damn close. Which was why he thought he was seeing things.

He checked his rearview mirror, didn’t see any other cars and risked pulling over to the side. He got out, leaving his vehicle running.

Three feet off the road, something had hit the fresh snow, denting its whipped perfection. The object had rolled several more feet before stopping, forward progression halted by a study wooden fence that was likely there to keep cattle in.

He could hardly believe his eyes. There was a woman in a bridal gown and nothing else, no coat, no shoes, just a long veil, which was what had caught his attention. It was flapping in the breeze like a wayward flag.

She was on her side, turned away from him.

He figured she had to be dead.

* * *

SHE WAS SO COLD. Had never been so cold. And her head hurt. But she had to keep going. Had to get up. Get away.

She forced herself to move and heard a man swear. Suddenly there were hands on her. She had to fight.

No. No. She could not go back.

Felt a hand on her neck. She swung an arm, a leg. Knocked into something.

“Hey,” he said. He pulled on her shoulder, flipping her to her back.

It hurt to open her eyes. The man was big and dark and he loomed over her.

She screamed and knew that no one was going to hear her. No one was going to help her. Just like before.

“How the hell did you get here?” he asked. But he didn’t seem inclined to wait for an answer. She felt strong arms, one under her neck, the other under her knees, and she was swung up into the air.

He held her close, pulled tight against his coat.

And he started walking.

She tried to struggle, to force him to loosen his grip. But it was as if his arms were bands of iron. And her arms and legs felt heavy, useless.

She was dying. She knew it.

She closed her eyes and waited for it.

She felt him shift her weight. Suddenly, she was standing. She needed to run. Go. Now.

So tired.

Took one step. Saw the vehicle. Saw the door that he’d just opened.

“Get in,” he said.

When she didn’t move, he scooped her up again and deposited her into the warm, the heavenly warm, SUV. He shut the door. Within seconds he was climbing into the driver’s side.

He was big and snow-covered and for one crazy minute, she could only think of the Abominable Snowman. But then he was moving, reaching a long arm into the backseat. She heard the sound of a zipper.

He had a big gray T-shirt in his hand. Suddenly, he was rubbing her face, her arms, brushing snow off. It was piling up on the floor, by her feet. He flipped the heater on high and more of the delicious heat poured from the vents.

His hands stilled suddenly. She looked down. He was staring at her left wrist. Saw his gaze move swiftly to her right arm. She looked, too. They matched. Both wrists sported a wide reddish band of skin.

And she remembered pulling, pulling with all her might. And being so angry.

“What happened here?” he asked, his words sharp.

She didn’t answer. Just stared at him.

He hesitated, then reached into the backseat again. Pulled out another T-shirt, this one white and long-sleeved, and some gray sweatpants. “We’ve got to get you out of that wet dress,” he said.

What?

She looked down. Saw what she was wearing and felt her heart start to race in her cold body.

How had this happened?

“Are you injured?” he asked.

Huh? He had evidently easily gotten past that she was wearing a wedding gown but she was having trouble moving on.

A wedding gown . She lifted her hand, touched the satin fabric, noting, rather dispassionately, that it was dirty in several places. Her hand started to tremble.

The man reached his own hand out, caught her fingers. “You’re shaking,” he said.

“Cold,” she said. She had been. For sure. But that wasn’t why she was shaking. Her body felt odd. As if she was on edge, just this close to spiraling out of control. At the same time, she felt nauseous, as if maybe she’d drunk too much and gotten too little sleep.

She turned her head to look at him. To try to offer up some sort of explanation.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, his cadence quick. “I didn’t see that earlier.” He leaned toward her and, with surprisingly gentle hands, prodded the right side of her head, just above her ear, with the tips of his fingers. She heard him hiss.

“You’ve got a hell of a knot here,” he said. “But just a small slice in the skin. It’s already stopped bleeding.”

She reached up. Their hands connected and she could feel his barely contained energy. His skin was warm. Vibrant.

He pulled his hand away. She continued to press and realized there was something on her head. A veil. Pinned tight into her hair.

She started yanking bobby pins and tossing them onto the floor. One bounced off the dash. She pulled and pulled. When the veil was loose, she ripped it off her head.

The man was staring at her, his hazel eyes assessing.

She reached up, pulled down the visor and stared into the mirror. Terror seized her, making her want to throw up.

Think. You need to think .

But it was as if all coherent thoughts had deserted her.

She started to shake. Badly. Not just her fingers or her hands. Her whole body.

And the man moved suddenly. Using both hands, he pulled the dry T-shirt over her head, stuffed both arms in. Pushed her forward in the seat, so that he could reach around her back. She felt him release the zipper of the dress. Felt him unclasp her bra.

Then he was pulling down her dress, her strapless bra, and lowering the T-shirt at the same time, preserving her modesty. His touch was quick, impersonal, but she felt the intimacy of it. She shook his hands off.