Beverly Long - Agent Bride

Something told her that he was right. Some past experience.

“How long do you think I have?” she asked.

He shrugged. “They told the desk clerk that you would have arrived within the last hour. So, I think their radius will be anywhere you could have gotten in an hour. On a normal day, that’s seventy miles, give or take. Today, half that at most. Today, they’ll be forced to stick to the main roads. But in a day or less, when this storm dies down, they’ll be able to cover ground much more quickly.”

“How long?” she repeated.

“I think you’ve got eighteen to twenty-four hours. After that, you better be on your game.”

Was she on her game? Not hardly. Something flashed in her head. She shook it, trying to clear it.

“What?” he prodded, maybe thinking that she wasn’t taking the threat seriously.

“You said I needed to be on my game. And all I can think of is Leon Durham.”

“The baseball player?” he asked, as if he really couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah. He played first base. Talented player but unfortunately, there was the time he let a ball roll through his legs.”

“In 1984. Cubs versus Padres,” he said. “Padres went on to win.” He paused. “How the hell do you know these things?”

She had no idea. It was just there.

It was horribly frightening. She had men chasing after her and all she had a grasp on was useless baseball facts. “Well, Mr. Hollister, it appears that I continue to be in your debt.” She looked toward the door, to give him the hint.

“You can start paying up right now,” he said.

What? He couldn’t be suggesting...that, could he? “It’s time for you to leave,” she said more sternly.

“Nope.” He lay back on the pillow, stretched his long legs out and kicked off his boots. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

“You can’t stay here,” she said, louder and with more of a shrill than she expected.

He opened one eye. “I’m tired. I’ve lost the better part of the evening helping you. Now, I don’t care if you want to sit in that chair all night or if you decide to stretch out next to me, but I’m getting some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”

“But...”

“Your virtue is safe with me. I don’t date married women and I certainly don’t sleep with them. And,” he said, “don’t get any ideas of rubbing that shampoo you’ve got cupped in your hands in my eyes. That would just piss me off.”

She had never been so furious. Or so grateful. It was preposterous that he was bulldozing his way into her room but there was something about him that, quite frankly, made her feel safe.

She needed sleep and she didn’t intend to do it in this chair. She got up, went into the bathroom to wash her hands and came back. “You don’t happen to have a nail file, do you?”

He lowered his chin. “Do I look like I file my nails?” he asked, his tone low.

“Not really. I thought you were the Abominable Snowman earlier,” she added. “And I guess he probably doesn’t file his nails either,” she finished weakly.

He laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him do that. It was nice.

He got off the bed, rummaged in the duffel bag that he’d tossed on the floor and came out with a small plastic box. He opened it and tossed a pair of clippers her direction. “Will these work?”

“Yes.” She was so grateful to be able to fix her poor nails that she quickly started clipping. She put the discarded nails in a pile and, when she was finished, dumped them in the wastebasket in the corner of the room, on top of the horrible dress.

“You really messed up your hands,” he said. “How did you do that?”

She was ready for the question. Had anticipated it while she was clipping. Felt good that she was functioning at a level where her brain was working again. “Bridal shower,” she said. “Nasty boxes with too much tape.”

“Uh-huh.”

She pulled back the covers on her side and crawled in, ignoring the fact that six feet of handsome muscle was on the other side of the bed.

He reached up and turned off the light. The room was not totally dark, however, because she’d left the bathroom light on and the door halfway open.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing deep. In her head, she counted. By the time she got to two hundred, he was breathing deep and she assumed he was asleep.

She thought about trying to sneak out. He’d tossed his keys on top of the chest of drawers. All she would need to do was grab them and get out without him hearing her.

She was good at that kind of thing.

Didn’t know how she knew that but felt it.

But where would she go?

That was the truly terrifying part—to have no idea where her safe place was located. Where her family might be.

She didn’t trust Cal Hollister but she trusted the outside world even less.

Chapter Four

Cal felt the candy bars and chips roll into him as she slid in under the covers. She smelled good. Very feminine. He had the craziest urge to reach out, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

But he kept his arms folded, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She was scared. Of him. But more so of the men that he’d described. So for now, she’d filed him under the category of lesser evil , which was just fine with him.

When he’d seen the second Mercedes idling in the lot, hidden to the casual observer, he’d realized that she was in the middle of something big. There was some serious muscle trying to find her.

He’d considered his options. He could forget what he’d overheard and seen and be on his way. He could go to the cops. Or he could barge his way into this room and try to protect this woman.

Who was lying to him. Of that, he was confident.

But he was also pretty sure that she was scared. Really scared. And he couldn’t forget those marks on her wrists.

When he’d walked in and seen her pile of clothes at the end of the bed, he’d known there was a good likelihood that she might walk out of the bathroom naked. And if he’d been a gentleman, he’d have knocked on the bathroom door, announced his presence and given her a chance to collect herself.

He’d considered that plan for about half a minute before he’d settled down on the bed, determined to let the cards fall where they may. She’d come out in her towel, which for some twisted reason was even more sexy than full nakedness. She had a compact little body. No taller than a couple inches past five feet, she had gentle curves and one set of really gorgeous legs.

When she’d walked past him, he’d seen immediately that she was holding something in her hands. But he had to admit, she was good. She’d seemed relaxed and her stride even, unhurried. Confident.

Perhaps too confident. An operative? It was possible. Since he’d heard the men’s foreign accents, the thought had been nagging at him. Was she part of a foreign terrorist group intent on screwing the United States? If so, even more reason to stick close to her. Was she an innocent, caught up with the wrong people? Then she needed his help.

He listened to her breathe, knew the exact moment that she let loose and fell asleep. He waited another five minutes, then carefully propped himself up on one elbow. Examined her.

She slept daintily, with her mouth closed. Yet, she wasn’t totally relaxed. Her jaw was set as if she might have her teeth together. And one hand grabbed the corner of the sheet, fingers clenched tight.

He was still worried about the lump on her head but she certainly wasn’t showing any signs of concussion. Her speech was clear, her pupils the same. Still, she should probably be checked in the night.

It was still blowing outside. That would slow the Mercedes Men down. But they would be back. He wasn’t concerned for his own safety. One against four were reasonable odds for a SEAL. But his attention would be diverted by her. And that could prove fatal.