WOULD-BE CHRISTMAS WEDDING

by Debra Webb

  “He hassled you, didn’t he?” There had been a moment between dances when she’d lost sight of her brother. She suspected he’d had a word with Emmett. This wasn’t exactly the time to carry on a casual conversation, but it kept her steady. “Thomas, I mean.”

  “If your brother had decided to act against me, I wouldn’t be here.”

  She shivered at the thought. “Then what makes you so sure I’m worried about public opinion?” She was. Or always had been. But she was changing...slowly.

  “You shouldn’t be,” he said. “The only opinion that ever matters is your own.”

  “A universal truth.”

  “That’s me.” He chuckled, checked behind them for trouble. “Moving to ops is a good call for you.”

  “You’re probably still the only one who thinks so,” she said under her breath. Would these stairs never end?

  Why was it those who loved her couldn’t see how desperately she needed to change things up? Everyone thought they knew what she wanted, what she needed. Yet no one listened when she tried to explain her new goals and the catalyst behind them. Maybe that was part of the reason she needed to see this through rather than hide in protective custody.

  Finally they reached the lobby. “What about my things?”

  She’d packed a bag and left it in the suite, according to his instructions.

  “Handled.” He took her hand. “Stay close.”

  She should have known that would be all the warning he’d give.

  A muffled pop sounded above them, followed by the startled shrieks of the crowd in the ballroom. Smoke poured from the center doorway.

  “What did you do?”

  “Diversion. No injuries.”

  “Lia!” Thomas shouted. Or maybe she just thought she heard her brother as Emmett ushered her out the front doors and into the cold night. Her heart sank just a little at the fear and worry she’d heard in those two syllables.

  Stay alert, she ordered herself. No mistakes. No missteps. A front had moved in and rain with a chance of snow was expected over the weekend. She added a shrug or shawl to her mental list of things to wear at her next kidnapping. Her nerves calmed a bit with the mundane and totally ludicrous thoughts.

  A gray sedan idled at the end of the Plaza’s circular drive, as anonymous in this area as the black SUVs that escorted officials everywhere in DC.

  Emmett opened the passenger door and helped her gather her dress inside. The only outward sign of his urgency was the way he raced around to the driver’s side. She glanced to the hotel, spotted her brother and two men dressed in hotel uniforms. Specialists. It seemed several uninvited guests had joined the festivities. She wished she could call to Thomas and let him know she was okay.

  “Where’d you get the car?” she asked, working hard to keep her voice steady.

  “Courtesy of Isely.” He pulled away from the Plaza. “Buckle up. We’ll have a tail in no time.”

  “Which team?”

  “Both, the way my night’s been going. I’m sure each of them will believe they’re an escort.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Send your brother a text message. Tell him you’re all right.”

  She pulled out her phone and sent more than one text message, hoping after that kiss one of her friends or family would assume what she wanted them to assume: that she was having a holiday affair.

  Emmett cruised north through Old Town, toward the Beltway into Washington, D.C.

  “We’re not hiding in the marina, are we?”

  “No.” He slipped a phone out of his jacket and placed it on the console between them. “Let me know if any messages come through.”

  “Of course,” she said, fishing her gun out of her purse.

  “Ah, here we go.”

  A black car pulled up beside them and a voice ordered them to pull over. She sank back into the seat as Emmett floored it. He slipped in and out of traffic like he’d been raised by a pack of race-car drivers. That sense of danger she’d felt last night returned, bigger and more tempting than ever.

  As did her brother’s voice in her head telling her Holt was the problem child. She looked at her phone, wondering what message she could send to change his opinion.

  “Ah, here comes the cavalry now.”

  She twisted in her seat and saw they were leading a parade of sorts. The black car was followed by a black SUV with blue-and-red flashing emergency lights.

  “You want the police involved?” She thought police involvement was a bad thing.

  “I don’t much care as long as we lose the extra personnel. If Mission Recovery intervenes tonight, I won’t be able to stop Isely’s endgame.”

  She came up hard against the door as he jerked the car around slower traffic. As she reached to steady herself, she bumped the handle and the door flew open.

  “Cecelia!” He slowed down and reached over to grab her arm.

  “I’m okay! Drive!” As he accelerated, the momentum helped her get the door closed, but there was no hope for the hem of her dress. “Damn it.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I dropped the phone.”

  “No problem.” He jerked them in front of the shelter of a semi-truck and then took the first available exit. It was the airport.

  “Thought you wanted them to track it?”

  “It’s not the end of the world.”

  He suddenly slowed to the posted speed limit, causing her to lean forward against the seat. He circled the terminal.

  “Please don’t tell me I have to get this dress and a gun through security.”

  “It would be a good training exercise.”

  “Funny. I can’t believe I dropped the phone.”

  “Really, it’s okay. It was some amount of insurance, but not essential. Isely knows how to contact me. He’ll tell me where he wants you to end up.”

  She was starting to get antsy about that. “I thought you made other arrangements.”

  “I did.” He reached over and covered her hand with his. “We’ll be fine. It appears he still trusts me.”

  “How can you be sure? He’s tried a hostile takeover on your kidnapping assignment two nights running.”

  “I can’t be certain. But I have what he wants. That’s always the key, Cecelia. Always.”

  Her throat felt dry at the thought. She dismissed her fears. She trusted Emmett. “So what now?”

  He pulled into a rental car lot and parked in the return lane. “Now we disappear for the evening. Should we go dancing?”

  A smile spread across her lips. “Tempting as that is, I could really use a drink.”

  “Then drinks it is.”

  He took her hand as they left the car and hurried across the lot to the reservations side. With a swipe of a card, they were on their way again.

  “Are you getting the hang of it?” he asked as they left the airport, heading into the heart of DC.

  “You did part of this for my benefit.”

  “Two birds, one stone,” he replied.

  “I’m starting to realize just how much I have to learn.”

  “But you still want to learn?”

  She paused, thinking over the past twenty-four hours, comparing those hours to the entirety of her life up to this point. It might not have been a fair comparison, since the months of fighting an unwinnable battle against cancer was foremost in her mind. Still, she knew she had it in her to do more—to be more—than a face for various charities.

  “More than ever,” she admitted.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holt had never heard sweeter words. “Then let’s get some more practice.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  He checked the burner phone Isely had provided. “I w
ant to know why he’s not giving me an address.”

  “We still have that location just off the coast.”

  “I know. I researched the wharfs and docks near Alexandria and on the Atlantic and came up with nothing I could tie to Isely.”

  “What about known associates with shipping or import interests here?”

  He liked that they’d been thinking along the same lines. “Nada. He doesn’t have any.”

  “Everyone has someone.”

  Not me. True or not, even in the privacy of his head the thought sounded pathetic.

  “The only people I can put with him are his own crew. This job is personal. You as a target proves that.”

  “Maybe he forgot to send you the memo that he wants to kidnap me personally. Maybe it really has nothing to do with Thomas or Mission Recovery.”

  He shook his head. “Unless your husband left something crucial in your care that neither I nor Mission Recovery has learned of, that’s not possible.”

  “But you can’t know for sure,” she argued.

  “That’s the one thing I am sure about,” he guaranteed.

  He drove in silence the rest of the way. Arguing with her would be a distraction he didn’t need. This was about Isely and his need for vengeance against Thomas Casey and Mission Recovery. End of story.

  When he reached the destination, he braced for the next part in his plan. He’d never had such trouble staying in the right frame of mind on a mission.

  He started to get out of the car, but she stopped him with a soft touch on his sleeve. “What’s the story here?”

  “No story. Just another party. Smile,” he said as the valet opened her door.

  Outside the car he handed over the keys and wrapped his arm around her trim waist.

  She followed his instruction to the letter. Somehow that made his heart glad, and there simply was no explanation why. She was a marvel, he decided. An uncommon blend of tenacity and bravery with a hearty lust for adventure. And her body... Well, he’d be better off if he put that out of his mind.

  He paused in the lobby for a quick kiss. “This is an office party of sorts. You’ll recognize a few faces from Casey’s wedding.”

  “You’re taking me into a room full of Specialists?”

  “Well, a few folks are from the CIA, too.”

  She paled. “Why take the risk?”

  “Because I need to get some rather sensitive information and showing up here as a couple supports the torrid affair gossip you started last night.”

  Her eyes narrowed, the blue spheres full of fire. It was an immediate turn-on. “That wasn’t all my fault.”

  “I was perfectly respectable before we met,” he lied with a wink. “We won’t stay long. Can’t stay long,” he corrected. “No matter who asks, do not leave my side.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He studied her face, gave her a glimpse of the raw need she stirred in him. “I could get used to that.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Damn, he admired her spunk. He wanted to laugh, wanted to see just how far he could tease her before one of them gave in. But that wasn’t on the agenda, no matter how hot and inspired he felt when she kissed him. The woman deserved a far better man than he was. She deserved her shot at ops, too, and he meant to see that she got it.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded, but her smile wobbled. Not acceptable. He stroked his hand across the bare skin of her shoulders and praised her dress designer. When she looked up at him again, he dropped a featherlight kiss on those perfect, rosy lips. “For courage,” he said, then he turned toward the private reception taking up the entirety of the Irish-themed hotel bar.

  More than half of the gathering was connected to Mission Recovery, and the hush that fell across the room when they saw him was palpable.

  No, he didn’t do social events and they all knew it. To arrive at all was unprecedented. To arrive with a date might be a portent of doom. For him in particular, if Director Casey had shared his suspicions with any one of the Specialists in attendance.

  Since this was a party to celebrate the recent marriage of Specialist Jason Grant and his CIA wife, Gin Olin, he wasn’t surprised when several people also recognized Cecelia.

  “Stay with me,” he reminded her behind a tense smile. If the way she was gripping his arm was any indicator, she had no intention of leaving his side.

  The crowd parted for Jason and Gin as they welcomed Holt and Cecelia, drawing them inside toward the bar.

  Gin called for champagne, shot Holt a curious look over Cecelia’s head then the women were immediately engrossed in conversation.

  Holt made a mental note to ask Cecelia how she knew Gin. He’d long ago given up trying to understand women, but even he recognized that kind of bonding was too quick under the circumstances.

  He accepted the champagne Grant offered, though he was ready for something with more bite and less fizz. Ah, well, that’s why he had a bottle of Scotch on his boat waiting for a victory toast the moment he buried Isely.

  “You said you had something?”

  “The man credited with the virus is dead.” Grant said this as if he’d given the newest weather report.

  “How?”

  “Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Five years ago.”

  Holt sipped, ignoring the annoying bubbles in the wine. “Guilt after the sale?”

  “Or designed to look that way.”

  “What about his lab, notes, apprentices?”

  “As far as I’ve been able to dig, all of his work is just gone.”

  “A targeted strike?”

  Jason nodded. “That’s my guess. But it wasn’t our team, as you well know.”

  Then why wasn’t Isely trying to get more money for a limited-edition bioweapon? The vial Isely had given to Holt was worth millions, assuming the virus was still potent.

  “I came across something I believe you and your lovely wife will appreciate,” Holt said. “Forgive the lack of wrapping.” He withdrew a long, slim box from his inner pocket and handed it to Jason. “Congratulations. You and your wife should open it later. It’s one of a kind.”

  Jason pocketed the box and raised his glass in salute. “We’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”

  Using the mirror, Holt eyed the crowded bar in an attempt to pinpoint which Specialists weren’t here and which ones were watching him too closely. He gave up after a moment. It wasn’t worth the effort. Any one of them, if not all of those present, had likely notified the director of his arrival already. The moment he and Cecelia walked out of here, he’d be a target again.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  “A word of advice, Grant?”

  “Please.”

  “Always make time for two things: your wife and a hobby.” It was the only tip he could offer and the only attempt he’d make to clear his name.

  If Grant understood, Holt might have a job to return to once Isely was contained. If the man didn’t understand the message...well that’s why he had the boat.

  Holt turned to Cecelia, couldn’t resist running his fingers down the back of her arm. “Time to go,” he said.

  She gave Gin a quick hug and then put her hand in his. “Lead on.”

  He wanted to go out the back but figured their odds were better in the lobby. The more people who saw them take the elevator upstairs, the better.

  She was quiet as they waited.

  “How do you know Grant’s wife?” he asked as the car arrived and they stepped inside. He pressed the button for the seventh floor.

  “It’s a vague acquaintance.”

  Her eyes were clouded and he knew she was a bit lost in her past. A kiss wouldn’t snap her out of it, though he was willing to try, but he thought she needed something. He rubbed her han
d between his. For her, he told himself. Not because he felt the strange urge to comfort and soothe.

  He didn’t do the tender emotions. Until he’d met her, he didn’t think he’d ever want to try. He tried to look at her objectively, but just couldn’t anymore.

  The doors parted on the seventh floor and he stepped out, only to get blindsided by a fist to the face. He reeled back into Cecelia’s soft body, knocking her into the safety of the elevator.

  He lunged at his attacker, taking the fight away from her. They hadn’t discussed it, but with her brother’s team downstairs, surely she’d go to them for help.

  The man tried to sweep his foot in a takedown, but Holt twisted and blocked, gaining a brief advantage with an elbow strike that separated them. It was a relief to see his opponent was one of Isely’s men, but the relief faded swiftly when he recognized which one.

  The crew called him Thor for his long blond hair, broad build and hands as big as hammers. “Hand her over.”

  Holt spread his hands wide. “Who?”

  Thor looked over Holt’s shoulder, then ripped off what must have been an inspired combination of curses in German. But it wasn’t enough to distract Holt from the fists racing toward his face.

  He bobbed and weaved, ducking under one swing to bounce a jab off of Thor’s sternum. Not much effect. He jerked back so Thor’s next punch glanced off his jaw, but even that was enough to knock him off balance.

  He staggered, then gave in and somersaulted backwards, bouncing back up to his feet. Thor closed in again. “She’s mine to deliver,” Holt said, hoping to goad Thor into sharing pertinent details. “I need the bonus.”

  He jabbed, ready to follow with a hook and left himself open to a devastating punch to the ribcage. Thor’s cocky smile was worth the pain. Sort of.

  The elevator chimed and both men turned. Cecelia stepped out into the hallway. “Leave him alone,” she said, raising the revolver.