“Marriage isn’t proof.” She’d seen enough weddings to know it took a lot more than a ceremony to make a happily ever after.
It took commitment and faith and trust and love. The kind of love that accepted someone as they were and made them a constant presence in your heart. Could she love him like that? Could he love her?
“Victoria?” He caught a stray curl and tucked it gently behind her ear.
He was so intent. So focused. It was easy to fall for a man who could look at you like the rest of the world didn’t even exist, but she needed more than that. She needed his word.
She turned to face him fully. “Swear to me that whatever happens between us, you will never cut off communication again. Not to me and not to Lorelei.”
“I swear.”
He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. Her breath grew short. “Don’t make me regret this, Nick,” she whispered.
“Never.” He moved a hand to reach for her, but hesitation held him in check. “Does that mean …?”
She caught his hand, lacing their fingers together. “You had an advantage. I never stopped loving you either. Even when I wished I could.”
His heart in his amber eyes, he lifted his free hand to trace the curve of her cheek. “Is it okay if I try to kiss you now?”
“No.”
He froze in the act of leaning toward her. She grinned and hooked a finger inside his vest, tugging him closer. Then she kissed him.
The familiar feel of his lips held the flavor of champagne and the hope for a thousand more kisses.
IT WAS, VICTORIA DECIDED, the best wedding she’d ever planned.
She stood in front of Pastor Jim with Lorelei and Sidney as her maid and matron of honor, respectively. Kipp acted as best man for Nick as they tied the knot under the gazebo at the yacht club.
It was a small ceremony—a larger group wouldn’t have fit onto the floating dock—but it was perfect. They wrote their own vows, and Tori knew she’d have to ask Nick to repeat his later because after “I forgot how much I needed you, but fate brought me back to remind me” she started bawling and barely heard another word he said. And she wanted to remember those promises to love and honor because her husband never made a promise he didn’t keep. Not to her and not to their daughter.
He’d said he would love them forever, and he was a man of his word.
Three-time RITA finalist and Golden Heart®-winning contemporary romance author Lizzie Shane was born and raised in Alaska and still lives in the frozen north when she isn’t indulging her travel addiction. After college, she worked in the entertainment industry for about fifteen seconds before deciding she’d rather write about love in the wilds of Hollywood than live it. Now, she uses the long winter nights in Alaska to create more happily-ever-afters. Lizzie also writes paranormal romance under the name Vivi Andrews.
For more about Lizzie and her books, visit http://www.lizzieshane.com.
BRANDON CLARKE-DAVIES TOOK A long, slow sip of his pint of Guinness and laid an arm across the back of the red leather booth nestled into a quiet corner of the pub. His eyes dropped to the white folder on the table in front of him, the light blue MI5 insignia in the top left corner.
He tapped it with one finger. “Not that I’m complaining about the free pint, but what are we doing here?”
Harry leaned against the booth and glanced around the small pub. Despite the fact that it was just shy of two on a Thursday afternoon, The Red Lion was bustling with patrons.
“She should be here any minute.” Harry drummed his fingers on top of the folder.
Brandon glanced out the windows on the opposite side of the pub, watching the traffic crawl by on Parliament Street. Weak summer sunshine filtered through the parting clouds, glinting off the puddles dotting the cobbled sidewalk. With an arched eyebrow, he shook his head at his boss’s secrecy and picked up his pint. As a highly trained MI5 Intelligence Officer, he was used to discretion.
He’d just tipped the pint glass to his lips when the sharp click of heels against the scarred wooden floor got his attention and he froze, shock turning his blood to ice water in his veins. Chiding himself for his minuscule slip in composure, he set the glass down and leveled his gaze at the woman standing in front of their table. Wrapped in an elegant Burberry trench, her hands shoved casually in her pockets, she tipped her head and gave them each a small smile before sliding into the booth right beside Brandon.
“Gentlemen.”
Her voice, just as low and husky and feminine as he remembered, hit him like a kick to the gut.
Harry shot Brandon a look. “Thought you might want to have the meeting here, as opposed to the office. In front of … you know. People. ”
“You’re a bloody saint, Harry,” he said, his jaw wound so tight he was surprised he could speak. He forced his shoulders to relax, unclenched his fists, and didn’t allow himself to reach for his pint. He dared a glance at the gorgeous woman sitting beside him, her legs crossed, her hands folded on the table as if sitting next to him were the most natural thing in the world.
But it wasn’t, because he hadn’t seen her in six years. Natasha Rowe. His ex-wife.
“Nice to see you, Brandon,” she said, the hardened consonants of her American accent sharp against his ears. As a wave of nostalgic desire crashed into him, he looked at her with what he hoped was a bemused expression because he had no idea what the hell to say. He sucked in a deep breath, which was a terrible mistake, because it brought with it her lavender scent, as warm and familiar as ever. Memories, most of them happy and exciting, floated to the surface, but he squashed them and plastered a thin smile to his face before they could suck him under, a tsunami disguised as a gentle wave.
Harry’s eyes flicked from Brandon to Natasha. If he picked up on the surprise, the anger, and, goddammit, the lust crawling beneath Brandon’s skin and threatening to burst out, he didn’t let on. With quick, efficient movements, Natasha unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it, letting it pool around her waist. Her red tank top cupped her ample breasts perfectly, leaving a subtle amount of cleavage on display. She ran her fingers through her chin-length dark blond hair and suddenly he was half-hard, watching her breasts strain for freedom beneath the red fabric. God, those tits. As if he’d ever forget how good they felt in his hands. In his mouth.
No. He couldn’t let his mind go down that path. He needed to focus on other things. Like the fact that two years into their struggling marriage, she’d walked out on him without a backward glance. That’s what he needed to be thinking about, not her glorious rack.
“Shall we?” asked Harry, leaning forward and flipping open what Brandon now realized was a mission dossier.
Bloody fucking hell.
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, Harry plowed ahead, spreading several pages and photographs across their sequestered table. “Last week, the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases in Maryland was breached.”
Natasha cut in. “We believe that Sergei Silayev, one of Europe’s biggest arms dealers—”
“I know who Sergei Silayev is.” Brandon’s skin crackled with angry impatience.
She nodded and continued. “We’re certain that Silayev’s agents were responsible for the breach.”
“What was stolen?” asked Brandon, his eyes narrowed as he studied the image of Silayev in front of him.
“Several vials of Marburg virus.” Brandon’s eyes met Natasha’s as the magnitude of what she was telling him sunk in. One of the biggest arms dealers in Europe—if not the world—had stolen several vials of a highly potent and deadly biological weapon.
“Fuck me,” muttered Brandon, finally allowing himself another sip of his Guinness. Something flashed in Natasha’s gray eyes, a hot, searing spark, and she rubbed her thighs together, almost imperceptibly. Almost. “How did you lot cock-up so bad that you let
one of Silayev’s agents infiltrate an Army base?” He was deflecting, trying to cover his own arousal at seeing Natasha again. She didn’t bat an eye, not allowing herself to be baited.
That was new.
“The chatter we’ve picked up indicates that the vials are here, in London. Silayev has just bought a house in Belgravia, and we believe he’s holding the vials there until he can find a buyer,” she said.
“Obviously, the Americans are keen to regain possession of the virus,” said Harry, leaning forward and interlacing his fingers. “Which is why we’re assisting the CIA on this mission.”
“You’re CIA?” Brandon turned in his seat, angling his shoulders toward Natasha. “You’re not still at Aegis?”
In response, she pulled a CIA badge from the inside pocket of her trench, flashing it at him before tucking it away. “I haven’t been at Aegis for years now.”
“But you loved it there. Why did you leave?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s classified.” She tipped her lips up in a half smile. God, that half smile was maddening. It made him want to strangle her and kiss her, and damn the consequences of both. Instead, he smiled smoothly.
“Of course. Apologies.” Brandon kept his voice deliberately flat. “Seeing as the vials are on British soil, and the mission falls under the MI5 umbrella, why doesn’t the CIA leave it to us?” He glanced at Natasha. “No offense.”
She smiled sweetly. “Because the CIA doesn’t trust anyone, not even MI5. No offense.”
The doors to the pub’s kitchen swung open, and the heavy scent of deep fried foods wafted through the air. As a waitress rushed past carrying a tray laden with several orders of fish and chips, all conversation paused, an involuntary ceasefire.
Harry cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Silayev is having a cocktail party tomorrow night and will be feeling out several potential buyers for the virus,” said Harry. “Your mission is to infiltrate the party, retrieve the vials, and return them to the US Embassy. There are officials from the CDC on standby who will ensure the virus’s safe transport to America.”
“Harry, I have to ask …” Brandon shook his head and blew out a slow breath through his nostrils. “Why me? Given our …” He gestured between himself and Natasha. “History. Wouldn’t another agent be better suited to the job?”
Harry tented his fingers and studied Brandon, narrowing his eyes. “No. Given your skills, experience, and the cover necessary to infiltrate Silayev’s party, it’s got to be you. Additionally, you’ve never worked a mission involving him or any of his known associates before, so there’s no chance of him making you for MI5.”
Resigned, Brandon nodded, scanning the pages and photographs in front of him. He glanced at Natasha, who he knew was deep in thought, running her index finger along her bottom lip as she studied the dossier contents.
“Agent Clarke-Davies, I’ve secured you an invitation to the party tomorrow night.” Harry slid a sealed envelope across the table to Brandon, who took it and slipped it into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “You’ll find your cover and all necessary information in that envelope. You know the drill.” He turned his attention to Natasha and slid a matching envelope to her. “Agent Rowe will be working the party as a waitress; we’ve secured the cooperation of the catering company. Agent Rowe will secure the vials while you, Clarke-Davies, make sure Rowe is able to do so without any hindrance. We’ll go over the finer points of the mission tomorrow. Questions?”
Brandon and Natasha looked at each other before shaking their heads. Harry stood and nodded once, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Best of luck, agents.” Shaking his head, he pushed open the door and set off down the sidewalk in the direction of the MI5 offices.
“So why did you leave Aegis?” Brandon asked.
“Why did you?” She threw the question back at him like a live grenade.
Why had he left Aegis, the private, international intelligence organization where he’d met Natasha almost eight years ago?
Because after their marriage had fallen apart and she’d left him, the shine of international espionage and adventure had lost its allure. Without his partner, his heart hadn’t been in it anymore. Coming home to London and joining MI5 had seemed the best option at the time. But he bloody well wasn’t going to tell her any of that.
So instead, he smiled, aiming for charming. “I’m sorry, but that’s classified.”
She laughed, her full lips pulling up into a genuine smile. She slid out of the booth, pulling her trench on as she went. “See you at headquarters tomorrow, C. D.,” she said, tossing out a nickname he hadn’t heard in years.
He found himself smiling as he watched her walk out of The Red Lion.
Bollocks.
“NO, THE PLAN IS that I secure the vials while you look out for me. That’s the mission, and we’re not changing it!” Natasha spoke through clenched teeth, arms crossed, not caring that she was yelling at her ex-husband in the middle of MI5 headquarters.
“Listen, you lot already lost those vials of Marburg once. We can’t risk another bout of incompetence.” Brandon leveled his cool gaze at her, and she wanted to scream in frustration.
Why did he have to look as though he’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ? He looked so good that she could’ve cried at how unfair it was. Unfair that she had to work with him, and unfair he had to look like that while she did.
His chestnut hair was shorter than when she’d last seen him, with a hint of a wave that she knew turned into curls if he let it grow long enough. Piercing blue eyes looked at her, framed with thick, long lashes that most women would kill for. His nose had a bump in it that hadn’t been there six years ago, indicating it had been broken at least once. He wore a simple white dress shirt that emphasized his broad, muscular physique. It was unbuttoned at the collar and tucked into gray dress pants. At six feet two inches, he was nearly a foot taller than her and a good seventy-five pounds heavier.
“So, what?” She jabbed her finger at the blueprint of Silayev’s house spread before them on the illuminated table, focusing on her frustration. “You’re going to sneak upstairs, crack the safe, and secure the vials while I’m your lookout? Ha! And let you take all the credit? Right. No fucking way, C. D.”
“Is that what you’re worried about? That I’ll get all the glory?” He braced his hands on the table and leaned toward her. “That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his glory when he smiled, and it wasn’t just any smile. No, it was the wolfish one that never failed to disintegrate her panties.
And he knew it. Her heart knocked against her ribs and her scalp prickled with the intoxicating mixture of lust, passion, and competitiveness that only Brandon could elicit, and she saw the flash of triumph in his eyes.
So much for not letting him get to her. Ever since she’d seen him in the pub yesterday and had nearly lost her lunch at the shock, she’d been fighting against the current of memories threatening to pull her under, trying desperately to exude cool indifference. But under that gaze, and with that smile, she was quickly melting into a puddle of nostalgia and hormones.
Her mind flashed back to the beginning of their relationship. They’d met on an assignment for Aegis, and their highly competitive natures had found them at each other’s throats—and in each other’s beds—before the assignment was over. They’d fallen hard and fast, the intensity of their feelings heightened by youth, by the danger around them, and by the exotic locations to which they’d traveled. Thanks to Brandon, she’d had orgasms on every continent except Antarctica.
God, the sex. She’d never been able to get enough of him, and in the years since, no man had come close to satisfying her the way Brandon had. She gave her head a small shake, sweeping away the memories like broken shards of glass.
“No,” she said, leaning over th
e opposite side of the table and mirroring his posture, giving him a generous view of her cleavage. His gaze dipped. “I’m worried you’ll fuck it up and make me look bad. Then I’ll have to rescue your ass, and I don’t have time for that. This time tomorrow, I’ll be back at Langley.”
Something flickered across his face that looked a hell of a lot like disappointment, but before she could be sure, it was gone. In an achingly familiar gesture, he raised a hand to his face, thumb under his chin, his index finger stroking the bridge of his nose. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and in another familiar gesture, let his tongue linger on the slightly crooked eyetooth on the right side of his mouth. British dentistry jokes aside, it was his only imperfection.
Only visible one, anyway. The others only became apparent when one knew him on a deeper level.
The moodiness, the competitiveness, the cockiness. Granted, they’d been twenty-two, and if memory served, she hadn’t been all rainbows and sunshine either. She’d like to think that now, at thirty, she’d matured somewhat.
“Fine. Yes. You’re right. We’ll stick to the plan.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, shooting her an apologetic smile. He crossed to her side and propped a hip against the table, facing her with his arms crossed. For several long seconds, he studied her, and then sighed. “It’s not easy for me to trust you, Tash.”
His words hit her with the force of a hurricane, almost knocking her over. She took a step away and folded her arms in front of her. “That’s fair.”
His brows knit together. “You’re bloody right it is.” He lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. “You just fucking left. I returned from that mission in Baghdad and you were gone.”
SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION Page 10
