She held up the strip of paper for him to see. On it was the link to a running website.
“You think I don’t know when a man is interested in me?” she asked. She paused for a beat. “Or that I can’t tell when he’s playing games?”
Garrett might play games, but they were serious. She had to know he was interested in her. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you can.”
“He was hot, Izzy,” Beth spoke up.
Isabelle’s head whipped around, her eyes widening. “Excuse me?”
Garrett bit back a grin. “She means cute. According to Ronan’s mother, I’m the one who’s hot.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into that. The last time she saw you, she had a lot on her mind.”
“Don’t you think Uncle Garrett’s hot, Izzy?” Chelsea asked.
Isabelle looked him over. Her grave expression became one of pity, as if she hated to be the bearer of bad news. “He’s cute enough, I suppose.”
He’d love to know what she really thought. He was fairly confident she considered him better than cute.
Chelsea played with one of her braids, a frown of deep concentration on her face as if she couldn’t quite figure something out. “If you have seven boyfriends, how will you know which one to marry?”
Garrett sighed. “You just aren’t going to let this go, are you?”
Isabelle nudged his knee with hers as she rested her arm along the back of her seat to speak past the headrest. “If I have seven boyfriends it means I’m not going to marry any of them. It means I like them and they’re nice, but I don’t think any of them are special enough to marry. If one of them was that special to me, he would be my only boyfriend.”
“Nice answer,” Garrett congratulated her.
Kiefer weighed in with his opinion. “You could marry Uncle Garrett. He’s special.”
Four pairs of eyes, including Garrett’s, turned on Isabelle. He lifted his eyebrows in a silent challenge. C’mon. Let’s hear you talk your way around this one.
She ignored him. “Of course he is. And he deserves someone special, too. But finding two special someones who are right for each other can take months, even years. It’s a big decision. You don’t want to get it wrong.”
“I disagree. If it takes months or years to decide,” Garrett said, “then they’re probably wrong for each other right from the start.”
“I’ll marry Isabelle,” Kiefer said, as if the matter were settled. “I think she’s special. She thinks I’m special, too. Don’t you?” he demanded of her.
“I certainly do,” she replied. “If you still want to marry me when you’re old enough, then I’m all yours.”
Kiefer had lost interest by now, more intent on ending the conversation than pursuing it. He grabbed one of Chelsea’s red braids in his fist and gave it a hard jerk. “When are we going to see Mommy?”
Garrett rolled up the windows so the whole industrial park didn’t have to hear Chelsea’s screams, letting Isabelle deal with the problem because she was better at soothing hysterics, and eyed his watch. Ten minutes. The boy was growing up.
Once Isabelle had the backseat under a cease and desist, he drove the minivan out of the park and onto the highway, headed for downtown and the harbor front. She was good with children, no doubt about that. She wasn’t the kind of woman who couldn’t make up her mind about things, either. She knew what she wanted—and she wanted to work with children.
She also liked traveling, and remained unflustered in high-pressure situations. Garrett shifted gears and moved into the passing lane. She’d make a good relief worker. An excellent one, in fact. She spoke several languages and understood third world living conditions.
But he’d been in disaster zones. While she might be good at it, and he didn’t doubt she could take care of herself as much as anyone in those types of situations, he didn’t like the idea of her working in one.
Isabelle wasn’t his responsibility, however. It didn’t matter what ideas he liked. She’d agreed to help him find her father. She’d said nothing about letting him take charge of her life.
* * *
They had lunch with Cheryl at one of the many taverns in Historic Properties, a tourist area along the city’s waterfront. They ate outside, on the patio. The street was narrow and very steep. The historic sandstone buildings were juxtaposed with newer, more modern glass and steel. At the foot of the hill, the white-capped waters of the harbor sparkled in the sunlight. If Isabelle turned, she could look up to the Citadel, an old fortress dating back to 1749, which crowded the skyline.
Isabelle barely tasted her order of fish and chips. Her entire body felt numb. The scrap of paper burned a hole in her pocket. Someone had tapped the Mansfords’ landline on her father’s behalf. When she’d made a call that morning to check on the times for writing her test, they’d found out where and when she’d be. Good fortune had found her alone long enough for a messenger to slip her a note.
So yes, Garrett, I do know when a man is interested in me.
All of her father’s precautions, ones she’d taken for granted—or chosen to disregard—were now cast in a new light. The Mansfords’ landline—belonging to Peter, a Member of Parliament, and Cheryl, who worked for a prominent law firm—had been tapped. Peter received personal calls at home from constituents with problems. One of the last cases Cheryl had worked involved a high-profile homicide. To tap their landline went far beyond a harmless safety precaution. What if Peter or Cheryl got in trouble over information someone stole from them?
Her father couldn’t possibly do something like this and be in international security management, as he’d claimed. Whatever he was involved in, Garret was right. It had to be bad. Nausea churned in her stomach as another realization struck her. She’d given CSIS information on her own father, the man who loved and raised her.
She could feel Garrett’s eyes on her.
“You okay?” he asked.
“The sun’s in my eyes.” She squinted, making Kiefer giggle.
“Would you like to trade seats with me?” Garrett was wearing sunglasses and she wasn’t.
“Thank you, but no. Then I wouldn’t have such a great view. From here I can see everything.”
After lunch they walked Cheryl back to her office, then headed to the boardwalk that skirted the harbor. Garrett had parked at an outdoor lot not far from the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic. They spent two hours inside the museum. Behind it was a small playground the children wanted to visit. After another hour, everyone was tired and ready to go home.
“Can we stop at a pharmacy?” Isabelle asked Garrett once they were out of the parking lot. “I’ll only be a few minutes. I need to pick up a few personal things.”
That was all it took to keep him from asking questions. Men were ridiculous when it came to feminine products.
He pulled up to a fire hydrant on the street out in front. “If I’m not here when you get back, just wait for me. It means I had to circle the block.”
Inside the store, she grabbed a box of tampons before heading for the display of disposable phones. She chose the cheapest she could find and purchased the minimum amount of minutes. She also picked up a bag of candy for the children to help disguise what she had in the bag.
When she finished, the minivan was still in the same spot on the street.
“That didn’t take long,” Garrett said. If he knew she was hiding something from him, he gave no indication.
“It didn’t require a lot of decision making,” she replied.
When they got home, she ran her purchases straight up to her suite. She stashed the phone under her mattress. It wasn’t an ideal hiding place, but neither was it out in plain sight.
Then she sat on the side of the bed and dropped her face in her hands. She could think of no way to tell Garrett about the phone being tapped that wouldn’t incriminate her father. Even now, she couldn’t begin to comprehend what he must be involved in to be able to arrange such a thing.
She’d t
ell Garrett tonight, in private, after everyone else went to bed. She’d ask for his help with a problem. She’d admit he’d been right about her father. There was always the possibility he’d withhold where he got the information from, and why the phone had been tapped. Yes, tapping the phone was illegal. But CSIS dealt in information. They didn’t always act on everything they learned.
They’d be terrible spies if they did.
* * *
Later that night, when the house was silent, Isabelle stood outside Garret’s door, gathering her courage. Earlier, he’d been lifting weights with Peter in the basement gym. She hadn’t noticed him come upstairs, but she’d heard his shower running, then stop. She’d waited a few minutes, giving him time to dress, but not enough to fall asleep if he’d gone straight to bed.
She didn’t know what she’d say to him. How she’d start. Maybe—you were right?
She knocked on the door, a soft rap in case he had gone to bed and wasn’t interested in being disturbed. A small thrill of excitement chased up her spine, leaving her hands shaking.
You might discover I’m not bluffing, he’d said to her.
The door swung open. A small lamp beside the sofa was the only source of light in the room. He’d been reading. He stood a few feet from her, wearing a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms riding low on his hips and nothing else. She’d seen him in less. This was different. His sun-bleached brown hair had been towel-dried but not combed, and was still damp. A shadowy sprinkling of chest hair over a layer of muscle had her fingers itching to touch him.
Warm hazel eyes caressed her. She’d grabbed the same shapeless T-shirt and shorts she’d had on when she first met him. Clean and comfortable, they gave her a sense of protection, which was why she owned them. They were nondescript and didn’t draw male attention—the feminine version of a suit of armor. Yet, when he ran his eyes over her, she felt naked.
His smile, slow and lazy, lit his face, making him appear much younger and less…overwhelming. But still dangerous. More so, in fact.
“This is unexpected,” he said. His gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t betray her father. Not more than she already had.
“Nothing.” She took a step back, wishing she hadn’t come. She couldn’t expect Garrett to keep such a thing to himself. Not when it involved his sister and her family. He couldn’t help her. “Never mind.”
“I think I do mind.” He caught her hand and drew her into the room, shutting the door behind her with a decisive click. He leaned against it. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to guess.” His eyes darkened with humor. “You’re calling my bluff.”
Her lips curled into a reluctant half smile. He was trying to put her at ease and it was working. “You wish.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.” His voice deepened and went smoky, sending shivers through her. “But first, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I think you might be right about my father.” Her answer came out on a soft exhale. The admission hurt her.
“I see.” He didn’t ask about her sudden change of opinion. He moved closer, placing a hand on the small of her waist as if urging her to dance. His fingers tightened in a quick squeeze of reassurance. “I also told you things will be okay. It will all work out. I’ll be right about that, too.”
“You can’t be right about everything.”
“Of course I can.”
He sounded so smug and confident. She had the sudden urge to unsettle him. She pressed her forehead to his chest, resting her hands on his hips above the drawstring of his pajamas, and felt the corresponding increase in the beat of his heart as her reward.
“For instance,” he said, keeping his tone conversational, “I know that if I were to kiss you right now, this time, you’d stay the night.”
It was true. There were so many reasons she shouldn’t be here. Yet she wanted him to kiss her anyway. She turned her face upward. As she did, their bodies connected. He bent his head. She rose on the tips of her toes and parted her lips in invitation.
He hesitated, a question in his eyes. Are you certain this is what you want?
Of course she wasn’t. That was what made it all the more exciting.
“I call,” she said. “Do your worst.”
Chapter Nine
He kissed her, deep and hard and with a thoroughness that left her head in a mixed-up state of confusion.
She forgot why she’d come to him. Why she should leave, although that moment had passed. She lifted her hands to the back of his head, wanting more. She heard a quiet sound—a small sigh of air—and realized it came from her.
He lifted his head. “I warned you,” he said, his voice raw. “Last chance.”
He wasn’t bluffing. She could feel the hard evidence against her abdomen. She shivered, already anticipating what was to come, knowing she could no more walk away than she could stop breathing. She slid her hands down the broad length of his back, pressing tighter against him. “You’re talking too much.”
His hands went to the hem of her shirt. She caught her breath as he peeled it, slowly, over her head, his knuckles brushing against her skin, his thumbs stroking the sensitive undersides of her arms. The T-shirt landed on the floor. He kicked it aside. His fingers found the clasp on the back of her bra. As he undid it, he kissed the curve of her neck. A sharp, delicious knife of heat lanced through her abdomen. The lacy wisp of fabric followed her T-shirt. Her nipples, peaked and hard, rubbed against the crisp hairs of his chest. The exquisite sensation was torture.
His hands were on her hips now, holding her as he kissed first one breast, then the other. His head dipped lower, his mouth blazing a trail of fire in its wake. He swirled his tongue around the piercing at her belly button. Isabelle’s knees weakened, and she had to prop her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. His thumbs hooked into the waist of her shorts, dragging them over her hips and down the length of her legs. She stepped out of them, and was left wearing nothing but a brief pair of panties. He ran a palm up the inside of her thigh, but stopped a breath shy of the thin fabric. His thumb wisped across the warmth of her opening. She gasped, arching her spine.
“You don’t talk enough,” he said. “I want to hear you ask me for this. No,” he corrected himself. “I want to hear you beg.”
“Nous allons voir qui est la mendicité,” she whispered back. We’ll see who is begging.
“We will soon enough.” He stood, and in a quick motion, swept her into his arms. She crooked an elbow around his neck.
“You should have more care with your back,” she said.
The corners of his mouth kicked up. “My back isn’t the part of me I’m most concerned about right now.”
The door to his bedroom was open. In a few strides, he’d carried her into the room and deposited her on the bed. He paused to look at her. She could see his face in the pale light of the moon through the open curtains, but couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking. It had to be strange to him to be so physically attracted to someone it was impossible to trust. Already, he might be regretting this.
He reached down with one fingertip and skimmed a line from the base of her throat to the tip of one breast, then to her navel. He toyed with the ring at her belly.
“You always surprise me,” he said softly, “with how very beautiful you are.”
His thoughts hadn’t gone at all where she’d feared. Her insides glowed with pleasure, as much at the sincerity of the compliment as from the heat in his eyes. “You almost have me begging. But not quite.”
He hooked her panties in his thumbs and tugged them down her legs. He tossed them aside. His pajamas followed them. Then he was on the bed, kneeling over her, naked and as beautiful to her as he claimed she was to him. He leaned forward and kissed her lips, then her jaw. He traced his tongue over the rim of her ear, nuzzling the sensitive spot beneath it with the rasp of his chin.
She smoothed her palms upward over his ribs, brushing her thumbs along
his sternum. His body felt much the same as his personality. Solid. If only things were different between them. That this was real and not a moment she was stealing from him because she was selfish.
He took both her hands in one of his, extending her arms over her head. He kissed her throat, beside her ear. From there, he focused his attention on her breasts. He swirled the pad of his thumb around the nipple of one. He drew the tight bud of the other into his mouth, and gave a light tug with his teeth. As he did, his hand slid between her thighs. He stroked a light finger along the dampness of her cleft, then again, gently exploring at first, before probing deeper. She gasped. A jolt of desire had her arching her hips forward in a silent demand.
This was torture.
His movements stilled. “Tell me what you want from me.”
She couldn’t begin to describe what she wanted. She had no right to ask for it.
“I want more,” she said.
His eyes gleamed in the faint light. “More…what?”
Everything.
She wanted his hands on her. She wanted him inside her. “More of you.”
“Then don’t move.”
He rose from the bed, naked and gorgeous. Isabelle heard him go into the bathroom. Seconds later, he returned to the bedroom, a small packet in his hand. He opened it and extracted a condom.
She extended her hand. “Let me have it.”
He held it out of her reach. “Are you begging?”
She considered it. “No. You can do it yourself.” She dragged a finger down the length of her torso, from between her breasts to the juncture of her thighs. Hungrily, his gaze followed the movement. “But trust me. It won’t be as enjoyable for you.”
He tossed the condom in his palm, moving closer to the edge of the bed. “If I give it to you, are you willing to call it a draw?”
“No.”
She got to her knees, and settling her hands on the solid curves of his buttocks, dragged him closer. She kissed the hard, flat plane of his stomach, then, trailing kisses lower, she flicked her tongue across the tip of his erection. He sucked in a ragged breath. She cupped him with one hand, drawing the head of him into her mouth, running the tip of her tongue around his rim.
Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) Page 11
