Debra & Regan Webb & Black - Would-Be Christmas Wedding

Holt drew back a step. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“I disagree,” Cecelia insisted.

Of course she would. But it was a mistake, more on her part than his.

“I don’t want to be gentle with you.” He wanted to scare her, wanted to back her off. But it wasn’t fear he saw in her eyes, it was…anticipation.

“So don’t be gentle.” She tugged at his tie and slid it out of his collar.

“Cecelia.” It was the only coherent word he could get past his lips.

“I’m right here.”

Her fingernails scraped lightly across his chest.

“I’m not that white knight you’re looking for,” he said with an ache that almost undid him.

“I don’t care.”

Would-Be

Christmas

Wedding

Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEBRA WEBBwrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain and within the confining political walls of Berlin, Germany, that she realized her true calling. A five-year stint with NASA on the space-shuttle program reinforced her love of the endless possibilities within her grasp as a storyteller. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Debra has been writing romance, suspense and action-packed romance thrillers since. Visit her at www.debrawebb.com or write to her at PO Box 4889, Huntsville, AL 35815, USA.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

The National Mall, Washington, D.C.

Thursday, December 18, 11:45 a.m.

So this is how it feels to be a traitor.

Emmett Holt exited the metro at the Mall. Of all his less-than-admirable traits and accomplishments, this one had brought him to an all-new low.

There was no going back from this, no explanation or excuse he could offer for the damaging evidence he was about to hand over. While it was only a flash drive, it felt like a fifty-pound weight-lifting plate from the gym. He knew Director Thomas Casey had someone tailing him and he knew better than to waste time trying to make that identification.

If this sting backfired, if either Thomas Casey or his nemesis, Bernard Isely, got impatient, Holt—standing between them—would get cut down in the crossfire. Not exactly the way he’d seen himself going out of this business, much less this world.

Handing over the reports from the Germany mission when Casey had killed Isely’s father was a stop-gap measure. Isely wanted both the intel on the old mission and the vial of the deadly virus Mission Recovery had seized two months ago.

It didn’t take a genius to know Isely wanted a whole hell of a lot more than that. The man had one goal: to exact revenge and destroy Director Casey.

Holt was running out of excuses to keep both men at bay. And timing was everything.

He walked with purpose toward the National Air and Space Museum gift shop, just another man picking up another gift amid the throng of tourists. The weather was clear and the wind cold, but winter hadn’t turned truly bitter yet and people were still wishing for an idyllic white Christmas.

Holt could only wish he would still be alive come Christmas.

He stopped where the text message had told him to stop, feeling like a damned puppet on a string. Even knowing at the beginning that it would come down to this didn’t make it easier to stomach the reality of doing so. He was used to giving orders, not taking them.

Handing over this tiny piece of technology and the huge intelligence it stored marked the beginning of the end.

It might have been a few years since his last field op, but the skills didn’t go away. They were far too deeply engrained. He checked his phone, made the drop and didn’t die or get arrested as he walked back to the metro station.

“Did my warning help?”

Holt didn’t miss a step as Isely joined him on the escalator. “Sure.”

After receiving a picture of Director Casey’s sister, Cecelia Manning, and the single warning of “Beware,” Holt had dug into the woman’s recent history to see what threat or purpose she might pose for Isely. Or for him.

He’d learned all kinds of details he didn’t want to know, from her favorite perfume to her tight circle of wealthy friends who toddled about doing charitable works.

Then he’d found the big splashy occasion he knew Isely had been looking for: the charity gala the widow had organized to benefit cancer research in memory of her late husband. The event offered the perfect opportunity.

“And?” Isely prompted.

Holt wasn’t inclined to answer truthfully. He’d exhausted himself planting bugs in the woman’s house, a GPS tracker on her car, opening a profile that matched hers on an online dating site and monitoring her general safety while maintaining his own responsibilities at Mission Recovery.

“And her family will join her at tomorrow’s event,” Holt replied, giving the man what he wanted.

“You will take the appropriate action?”

Holt nodded, letting his hand shake just a touch. He didn’t want to oversell it, but a traitor would have reservations and a few jangling nerves at this point. He had a wild hope that a specialist would come charging in—now—before this got messy.

“I will send the address when it is time.”

Holt nodded again as the train came into the station.

“Don’t worry, my friend.” Isely’s hand landed heavy on Holt’s shoulder. “You have a new team now. You are not alone.”

Friend?

Isely couldn’t know it, but that was Holt’s worst fear.

Chapter Two

Alexandria, Virginia, 2:15 p.m.

“I know you’re disappointed, Mom.”

Cecelia Manning filled two mugs of coffee and handed one to her daughter, Casey. She watched Casey add a scant teaspoon of sugar and a hefty dollop of milk.

When the risk of milk ending up on her counter was minimized, she said, “My application was accepted.”

“What?” Casey’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am completely serious,” Cecelia replied. She decided hiding the pain her daughter’s reaction had caused was best for now. Neither her daughter nor her brother approved of her desire to go into fieldwork for the CIA, but Cecelia had had more than she could take of the boredom and routine of pushing paper around the agency office.

Her husband had worked in the CIA for the entirety of their married life, until he’d passed away just over a year ago.

Her brother was the director of an elite team of covert agents known only as “Specialists.” Her daughter had gone into CIA fieldwork, as well. Yet they all expected her to...what? Continue in her predictable, safe role, making Sunday dinners and birthday cakes and learning to knit while she waited for Casey and her new husband, Levi, to provide the grandchildren she wanted to spoil.