The Wrong Bride: A Christmas Mail Order Bride Romance (Brides and Twins Book 3)

by Natalie Dean

  No, she couldn’t take him into the officials. They had to clear his name.

  She couldn’t believe she was even entertaining the idea. People had a name for what she was doing: treason. A nasty word with a nasty punishment. If she didn’t have her powers, if she wasn’t so confident that he was innocent, and if she wasn't having these feelings of attraction toward him, she would never have considered the idea of treason. She’d get to that spare phone in her apartment and dial the agency, identify herself, and turn him in.

  But she was starting to like The Celtic. She was starting to enjoy his company. The way he grinned like a big idiot. How he was strong but gentle. How he complained about stepping in some gum on the pavement worse than he did about getting shot.

  Maybe in another time they wouldn’t have been on the opposite side of the law. In that wonderful, unrealistic world… maybe Adrianna wouldn’t be averse to being more than just friends, and she had a sneaking suspicion he felt the same way.

  Oddly, though, neither one said anything the entire trip. Her house, luckily, was a short walk away. It was probably the only thing that had gone right for her the entire time. She didn’t have to fight for it. She didn’t have to put her life on the line. It just… was. It felt nice.

  Her safe house in Calidad was her favorite. She had three or four of them all across the world, but her favorite was right there in Calidad. It was a quaint, little house; looking at it, nobody would suspect anyone but a nice, young family lived there. It was painted a crisp but not overpowering red with an affordable roof and quality windows. Finally, to top it off, it had an accent wall of brick.

  “Oh,” The Celtic said as they arrived. “That’s nice.”

  “Built it myself,” she said proudly. It wasn’t something she got to say too often. Nobody in the world knew about that safe house except for her and The Celtic, and maybe if someone was determined enough at the city. “Well, not all of it, but the pretty parts.”

  “Impressive,” he said, nodding his head in respect.

  They walked up the stone pathway, past a hippie garden gnome with his two fingers giving a peace sign. The Celtic looked at it for a second but didn’t say anything.

  They came to the door, which had an extremely specific lock on it. If anyone screwed it up, it would immediately send an alarm to the police. She’d though it was a good idea at the time—ward off any thugs trying to get in. She hadn’t, however, considered the possibility that she herself would type it in wrong. Every time she entered it (which wasn’t often), she was thinking she hoped she didn't accidentally set off the alarm, alerting the cops.

  She typed in the code and waited for one heart-pounding moment. Luckily, the numbers flashed green. She was in. The cops weren’t coming, which would have been a tragic and rather humiliating end to their adventure. Hiding away from the law with a wanted fugitive based on a gut feeling didn’t work too well when you called the cops to your door.

  The door swung open, letting in a waft of chilly air. The benefits of living in a chilly part of the world was pretty near endless to her—nice temperatures, you weren’t sweating all the time, snow was cool, all that stuff. But there were a few flaws, namely that buildings got cold without a heater.

  Inside was where the real fun started. Adrianna had a bit of a… funky fashion sense. She didn’t play by normal rules in life or in interior decorating. Sure, she followed some—accent walls, that kind of stuff—but past that, she really let loose with a couple cool pieces. Probably her favorite part of her house was a gigantic hippo couch that was carved to look like a fat, black hippo but was hard on one side and plush on the other.

  “Oh my,” The Celtic said, touching the hippo chair gently, like he wasn’t sure if it would attack. “This is interesting.”

  “Yup,” she said as she checked outside. Everyone walking around out there looked normal. Unless the killers were working with elderly ladies and young couples pushing baby carriages, they hadn’t tracked them. Presumably, they were safe.

  She drew the blinds, darkening the room. After taking one last look outside, she turned back into the room to come face to face with The Celtic, who was holding a realistic fake rose an inch away from her face.

  She jumped back automatically. “What are you doing?”

  “No?” he was grinning. Idiotic joker. A loveable one, though. “I just figured that the rose fit the mood of the room. We’re not being romantic?” he acted jokingly bashful and put the rose back into the vase. “Oh. Never mind.” He failed to put the rose in properly the first time, so he pulled it out and tried again. That time, he was successful. “Why do you even have a fake rose in here?”

  “My grandma gave them to me,” she replied, wondering why she had been hoping he was serious with the rose. “C’mere. I got something for you.”

  “Oh, really? Is it a birthday present? You know, it was my birthday last week.”

  “It was? Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “Happy birthday, then!”

  He gave her that big, happy smile of his. “Thanks, Adrianna.”

  Suddenly, she realized that he had called her by her first name. He’d never done that before. He’d always just called her Agent Whetmore if he tried to get her attention. Despite herself, she felt a stirring in her heart. She liked to hear that.

  “Well, consider this your birthday present,” she said as they walked into the bathroom. The bathroom, as backwards as it sounded, was one of her favorite rooms. She hadn’t spared any expense in there. She was a shower person, so she’d installed a nice, walk-in shower with modern, black tile and a rainforest faucet so it felt like walking into rainfall. She hadn’t always been a shower person. She’d used to abhor showers, but she was broken of that habit in the agency. One of her fellow agents had talked to her randomly about it once, and his statement of why he didn’t bathe was, “Why bathe? All you do is sit in dirt.”

  She hadn’t had an answer.

  So she started showering. The agency only provided showers anyway, so it became habit. Then, years after joining the agency, she was wedded to showers only.

  But the useful part of the bathroom wasn’t just the shower. It was also where she kept her bandages for patching herself up. It was the first time that she’d been forced to use that safe house, so the bandages were still in their original packing.

  “Take your shirt off,” she said as she ripped open a package.

  He whistled suggestively.

  “Shut up,” she said sweetly without looking at him. She was vaguely aware of him pulling his shirt off, so she subtly stole a couple glances. She didn’t want him to catch her, so she wasn’t able to look for very long, but what she saw, she liked. A lot. In the past, she’d been able to see little glances of his musculature under his shirt and of course while researching him, she’d seen him shirtless.

  It was different in person.

  But then his shirt was off, and she concentrated back on the package before he noticed she was staring.

  She got the feeling that he knew she’d looked, but he didn’t say anything, which she appreciated. She felt like a child, but she had no idea what to say if he started questioning her. She hadn’t had too much practice flirting. She’d been gawky in high school, but once she’d grown beautiful in the agency, she’d been focused on her work. She didn’t have time for romance. Now, in her thirties, she was wondering if she’d made a mistake. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt herself transported back to high school, wanting the cute, athletic boy to talk to her.

  Except she was an agent of the FBI and the cute, athletic boy was a man accused of murder. She felt ridiculously much like she belonged in a silly murder show. None of it seemed real. She could’ve sworn that the whole thing was an idea dreamt up by some high schooler, not real, hard, dangerous life.

  She bandaged him mindlessly, letting her hands do the work. She zoned out for a second, thinking.

  “Ow!” The Celtic yelped.

&
nbsp; She pulled back. “I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he said. “Got you again.”

  “You’re mean,” she accused.

  “Guilty as charged,” he said, raising his arms so she could better get around his chest. “You okay? You look kinda… sad, maybe?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He nodded. He was good at reading emotions. Almost too good. But then again, with someone like Adrianna who tended to be an emotional whirlwind of various passions at all times, that was probably good.

  “Hey,” he said softly. She met his eyes and started to fall into them before catching herself. “It’s going to be all right, okay? You worry too much. Everything is going to be okay. We’ll protect each other.”

  She saw herself giving a response, but inside, that emotional whirlwind was starting. They were still on opposite sides of the law. He knew he was innocent. She knew he was innocent. But in the end, there was a solid chance that neither one of them would make it out. She… no, they had to track down The Owl and bring him down—or at least find evidence to use against him—which would be hard enough as it was. To make matters worse, word of the kid whose truck they’d busted up would wind up getting all the way up to Agent Stone.

  When he heard that she might have gone haywire, he would put agents out on the both of them. She might be able to prove herself innocent, but if the agents found them before they busted The Owl, The Celtic was going to be arrested. Then they were back to square one.

  It was a disaster.

  Yet there was nowhere Adrianna would rather be.

  After The Celtic got all fixed up, Adrianna found him a handgun to defend himself. As she handed it to him, he frowned.

  “Is this loaded?”

  “No, I’m leaving you with a useless piece of metal.”

  “Well, no, I mean… you trust me that much?”

  She met his eyes. “Should I?”

  He kept her gaze. “Absolutely.”

  She pushed the gun into his hands. “Don’t leave, okay? You already know I’m not taking you in yet. I mean, you can leave if you want, but it’d be a dumb thing to do.”

  He winked at her. “I’m not going anywhere, Adrianna.”

  Before she could muster a good response, he was talking again. “But you are. Why are you leaving me?”

  “I’m just going to shower.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “You mean this place has water?”

  “Well, duh. Why wouldn’t there be?”

  “Just kinda expensive if you’re never here.”

  “You know what? You’re right. But here we are, so it was worth it. Anyway. I’m going to shower. You keep an eye out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She had no idea when it had happened, but she had grown quite fond of The Celtic. One moment, he was just someone she knew, just a peer. Well, peer wasn’t really the right word. She was, what, six years older? Something like that? But the point was that all of a sudden, entirely without her permission, he’d made his way into her heart—which, besides her father, nobody she’d known in her entire life had done.

  She had awful choices in men. Lots of guys had hit on her in the agency, but none of them had done it for her. Of course she had started falling for a wanted fugitive.

  She grabbed a spare set of clothes from her designation drawer and went into the bathroom. She started stripping, which was basically just a process of moving from one ache to the next. Knee. Arm. Rib. It just kept going until she was finally naked, when she stiffly walked into the water.

  Although undressing had been awful, the water was worse. So much worse. As anyone who’s had a carpet burn knows, you don’t want water on a fresh wound. It stings like one would not believe and grows astonishingly tight in an unusual way. For Adrianna, who looked like she’d been in a warzone, everything hurt.

  But after that initial pain, everything settled in and the warm water felt like heaven. To wash all the pine needles out of her hair was breathtaking. She had no idea that they were irritating her that much until they were gone and she felt freed.

  “Hey!” she heard from The Celtic halfway through her shower from outside.

  Adrianna instantly jumped to soldier mode. Of all the time the killers could have found them, of all the minutes, it had to be the one time she was showering. She would need to jump out and grab clothes (did she have time?) and snatch that little gun from the medicine cabinet. It wasn’t great for shooting, but it would have to do.

  She was halfway out of the shower when The Celtic finished his statement. “Do you think the peanut butter is spoiled?”

  She froze, one foot on the bathmat, the other in the shower. “What?”

  “I found some peanut butter. Do you think it’s spoiled? Can peanut butter even spoil?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she said, stepping back into the shower and trying to calm herself down. Getting to soldier mode was easy. Just get mad. Let adrenaline flow. Meta stuff. Resort back to the training that the agency had given her. Going back to civilian life was harder. The agency taught her how to get into the mindset of being an agent. They didn’t teach how to get out of it.

  Chapter 11

  After her shower, she realized something.

  She was a criminal.

  Sure, it was justified and all that, and if it were a movie, hopefully the audience would root for her. But in real life? She was a criminal for aiding The Celtic. She could go to jail. Jails weren’t too good for former FBI agents for the obvious reasons. Even if she wanted to, it was too late to clean her record.

  She dressed quickly and hobbled out of the bathroom stiffly, way too aware of the wounds that were tightening up from the water. After dropping her clothes into the washing machine, she came back into the living room of the little house to discover The Celtic laying on the couch with a bowl of ice cream and a jar of peanut butter beside him.

  “Oh, no,” she said, crossing her arms and completely failing to hide her amusement. “Go ahead. Eat all my stuff.”

  “I figure you’d be okay with it,” he said, a spoon of ice cream halfway to his mouth. “I really don’t eat this bad normally, I swear. It’s just… mint ice-cream. It’s my weakness.”

  “I don’t think it’s that good of an idea to eat that,” she said. “It’s probably expired.”

  “It’s not. I checked.”

  “Well, that’s unexpected.”

  “You make it a habit of keeping around expired food?”

  “Well, no, but… never mind,” she said. “C’mon. Move over.”

  She sat next to him and together, the two of them figured out how to stop The Owl, stay away from the long arm of the law, clear both of their names, and come out of it alive.

  “So,” Adrianna said, who had warmed up some frozen food she’d set there in the safe house, “What do you know about The Owl?”

  “Not too much. He’s smart, smarter than most. I’ve never seen his face, and I haven’t heard from anyone who has”

  Well, that was bad news. Hard to prove someone was the head of a mysterious, never-before-known crime organization without being able to even recognize them, much less prove guilt. “Nothing?”

  “I know he’s got a bad leg. Nobody really knows what it is, but supposedly, he limps. Arthritis, maybe?”

  “He’s old?” she pushed.

  “I have no idea. I’d bet he is.”

  “Why’s he called The Owl? You guys all have an organization where you pick random the names? The Owl? The Celtic?”

  “Ha, ha. He’s called that because he’s quiet. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve always wondered if he’s, I don’t know, an ex-fighter or something. Bad joints. Could be an explanation. Soft voice? Throat injury? But anyway—”

  At that exact moment, the spare cell phone, the one that Adrianna had never shared the number for… rang. Adrianna and The Celtic exchanged startled glances. Both of them knew that nobody had the phone number. She kept it around i
f she wanted to call someone like the cops. She hadn’t even known that it could receive calls.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” The Celtic asked.

  Adrianna reached for the phone, slid the icon across to answer, and pulled it up to her ear. “Hello?”

  The guy’s voice was deep and very, very soft. It was weird, but she almost had to strain to hear him. “Agent Whetmore, I assume?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “This,” he said softly, “is The Owl.”

  Adrianna pulled the phone away from her ear and frantically pointed to it, mouthing The Owl!

  The Celtic’s eyes widened and the spoon of ice cream froze halfway to his mouth. What?! he mouthed back.

  She pulled the phone back to her ear. “Pleasure is all mine,” she said coolly, like how James Bond might say it.

  “Funny,” said The Owl from the other side. “I’d like to ask you a favor.” He took a long, rasping breath. He sure sounded old. Not senile, just on in his years. “No, do yourself a favor. Give up this nonsense. Could I persuade you to check your window?”

  Adrianna felt dread wash through her. He wouldn’t have said that unless he was outside. She popped her head to the window, hoping they wouldn’t just shoot her in the head. They didn’t, giving her a full view of the road outside. Four, black vans, an ice cream van, two black cars, and a Hummer limo. He sure didn’t do subtle.

  “Here is my proposal, Agent Whetmore. I am tired of death. I hope you are as well?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point. I have need of someone with your area of expertise. I can keep you safe. I can shelter you from the law. You realize that by sheltering him, you have your own law hunting you. I am more forgiving.”

  “Gosh, that’s so nice of you.”

  “Let me be frank, Agent Whetmore. You have two options. You can either abandon these silly notions of law and order and join me—both of you will be kept quite safe—or you will not live to see tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry,” Adrianna said sarcastically. “Can you speak up?”