Carla Neggers - Red Clover Inn

Samantha had already gone back to the wedding hotel for an early night by the time Charlotte had arrived at the party. She shifted back to the man next to her at her table. “I’m Samantha’s maid of honor,” she said, hoping she sounded relaxed, matter-of-fact.

“There you go. Being in the wedding explains why you’re so uptight.”

“Actually, no, it doesn’t, because I’m not uptight.”

“Nervous? Being in front of a crowd can make people nervous.”

“I’m not nervous or uptight. But never mind.”

He eyed her as if he was debating asking a follow-up question. “Samantha’s a pirate expert and treasure hunter,” he said instead. “I’m going to guess that you’re not.”

“Marine archaeologists are sometimes involved in exploring sunken pirate ships, but you are right, I’m not.” She used a tone that she hoped signaled she didn’t want to answer more questions about herself. “I’ll go find your friend.”

“Don’t bother. I see him. He’s chatting up one of the groom’s brothers. Am I starting to annoy you, Charlotte?”

“Let’s say initially I felt somewhat protective of you but now I don’t.”

“Protective of me?” Another wide, amused grin. “I like that.”

“Protective only in the sense that I don’t want you to do anything to get yourself in trouble with your superiors or to cause trouble for anyone else, especially Samantha, since it’s her wedding tomorrow.”

“And you? Are you being protective of yourself? You don’t want me to cause trouble for you, right?” He leaned back on the bench. “Or do you?”

“I assure you, Agent Rawlings, I can handle whatever trouble you have in mind for me.”

He gave her a slow, easy, impossibly sexy grin. “I’ll bet you can.”

“I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

“No comment.” He blinked, plainly having difficulty keeping his eyes open. “So. You haven’t told me to shove off, because you’re protecting me and your cousin but not yourself. Got it.”

Charlotte didn’t quibble. Greg Rawlings was muscular and broad-shouldered but he wasn’t what she would call handsome. Instead he had a magnetic, arresting appeal that worked well with her need for a distraction and probably was a factor in her not sending him on his way.

“You are pretty, you know,” he said, catching her off guard. “Your brown eyes remind me of a golden retriever I had as a kid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did I just say you have eyes like a dog? Damn, I did. He was a great dog, if that helps.”

“I love dogs,” Charlotte said, keeping her tone neutral.

“Me, too. And you do have pretty eyes.”

“Do you always dig holes this deep with people you’ve just met?”

“Usually deeper.”

She didn’t doubt him.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’ve dug a hole with you?” She smiled. “Ah, well.”

He laughed, looking less exhausted—and not at all drunk. “Fortunately, my job requires me to keep my mouth shut most of the time. Do you work with Samantha’s parents? Aren’t they exploring sunken U-boats off the coast of Scotland?”

“They were. That project ended recently. I did work with them, yes, on a contract basis.”

“Are you a diver?”

Charlotte hesitated only a fraction of a second. She doubted most people would have noticed her hesitation, but she could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that Greg Rawlings did. “I’m with the Institute of Maritime Archaeology based in Edinburgh,” she said, crisp, professional. “Diving is an important part of what I do.”

Greg shuddered. “Just the thought of diving gives me hives.”

“That’s your answer, then. If thinking about diving bothers you, then it’s the thinking that’s the issue, not the diving itself.”

“It’s the diving.”

She couldn’t resist a smile. She had to admit she was enjoying their banter. It was harmless, a little fun before she retired for the night. Maybe he’d sized her up right after all. “I’ve been diving since I was a kid,” she said. “I guess it never occurred to me to get hives over it. I’m fascinated by the world’s underwater heritage. There’s so much to explore and learn.”

“One of our last frontiers,” Greg said, obviously not that interested. “I guess space is another. I don’t like the thought of space suits, either. I like breathing real air.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him about the definition of real air. “It’s hard to believe Samantha ended up a couple of hours from the nearest salt water, but she loves her adopted town in Massachusetts. England is perfect for her wedding, though, since most of her family lives in the UK. She says it’s going to be beautiful tomorrow. Apparently the wisteria is in full bloom.”

“What’s wisteria?” Greg asked.

“It’s a flower.”

“Then it’s not contagious. Good.”

Charlotte sighed. “Very funny.” She started to rise. “Good to meet you, Agent Rawlings. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Greg placed a hand on her wrist, sending unexpected currents through her. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Have another glass of wine. You were here first. I’ll go find Brody. I remember when he got his first assignment. He was green as a grass snake. Now he’s in his prime, and I’m—Wait, where the hell are we?” He glanced around him, as if he were confused. “Some twee English village, right?”

Charlotte observed him. He was entertained, unconcerned—and deliberate, she decided. Diplomatic Security Agent Greg Rawlings might be exhausted and he might be trouble in many ways, but he wasn’t inebriated. He was stone-cold sober. Her initial impression of him had been part right and part wrong.

Mostly wrong.

She gave an inward groan, not so much embarrassed as annoyed with herself. But wasn’t being wrong about people par for the course for her these days?

Par for the course with her and men, she amended silently.

She did much better with the ghosts she found underwater.

“I have to unpack,” she said politely, firmly, as she stood. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

This time, Greg didn’t stop her, and she slipped out of the party room, down the hall and out to the bar. More family and friends had decided to stay overnight than expected, and Charlotte had offered to stay in one of the pub’s half-dozen guest rooms, freeing up space at the relatively small wedding hotel.

A room at the pub also allowed her to get her bearings before tomorrow.

Weddings.

She took a breath and sat on a stool at the bar. A quiet drink without any back-and-forth with a federal agent and then she’d collapse into bed. By daylight, she’d be ready to pour herself into her maid-of-honor dress. The long train ride from Edinburgh to Oxford and then a cab to the small English village where her cousin was getting married had left her drained. She’d had too much time to think. Inevitably, her mind had drifted to thoughts, questions and regrets best avoided on her way to a wedding.

“Scotch,” she said to the tawny-haired barman. “Smoky and expensive.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“We are celebrating that I’m here for my cousin’s wedding tomorrow, alone, single and in one piece.”

The barman poured a pricey single malt and set the glass in front of her. “Cheers, then.”

Charlotte held up her glass and smiled. “Cheers.”

* * *

Brody Hancock planted a fresh beer in front of Greg and sat across from him. “Do I need to go find that woman and apologize on your behalf?” Brody asked.

Greg picked up the beer. “That woman is Charlotte Bennett, Samantha’s cousin and her maid of honor.”

“Even more reason to apologize.”