“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.”
“Apologize for what?”
“You tell me. I’m going to make an educated guess and say you were jerking her chain.”
“She started it by assuming I was drunk.”
Brody groaned. “That’s so third grade, Greg.”
“I know. It’s fun, isn’t it?”
“For you, maybe.”
Greg didn’t argue the point with his friend and colleague. Brody was a good-looking guy in his midthirties, dressed for the night in a suit, probably because it was his brother-in-law who was getting married tomorrow.
“You’re doing some assuming of your own,” Brody added. “You don’t know what Charlotte was thinking.”
“I do. She told me. She’s blunt. She threatened to disarm me.” It was an exaggeration and Greg knew it. “I swear.”
“How was she going to disarm you, Greg?” Brody asked, sighing.
“I don’t know. It could have been interesting to find out.”
Brody shook his head. “Don’t make me regret getting you invited to the wedding.”
“I won’t. Relax. That’s what I’m doing. Relaxing.”
“Sure, Greg.”
He realized his eyelids were drooping. Damn, he was beat. He’d been going all out for months. A wedding in the English countryside was just what he needed. “Charlotte’s uptight and was looking for a distraction,” he said, confident in his assessment. “Fretting about me gave her something to do. If anyone needs to apologize, it’s her.”
“Somehow I doubt she’s the one who needs to make apologies.”
“Charlotte Bennett can hold her own. Trust me. And it’s Charlotte, by the way, not Char or Lottie or anything else. Charlotte.”
“And you’re an ass,” Brody said with a grin.
“I do a good imitation of one, anyway.” Greg considered his encounter with tomorrow’s maid of honor. “She’s hiding something. I can tell these things.”
“You’re good, Greg, but even you aren’t a mind reader. Enjoy your beer. We don’t have to worry about getting in a car and driving on the wrong side on the winding country roads.”
Heather, Brody’s dark-haired, blue-eyed bride of a few months, joined them. She and Brody had grown up in the same town, an out-of-the-way little place west of Boston called Knights Bridge. Greg had been there over the winter and met a bunch of locals, including Heather’s five older brothers. They were all here for tomorrow’s wedding—especially Justin Sloan, since he was the groom. Being the youngest and only girl, Heather was another one who gave as good as she got. Brody had never intimidated her. Neither had the animosity between him and her older brothers that had gone back to their teen years. All water over the dam now. On Greg’s one and only visit to Knights Bridge, Brody had just returned to his hometown after more than a decade and he and Heather Sloan were doing the dance, wondering if they were meant for each other. Bu
t they were. Greg had seen it right away. Love for them had come fast and fairly easily, and he was certain it would last.
Heather set three glasses of water on the table. “Figured it’s time for us to switch to H2O,” she said cheerfully as she sat next to her husband.
Greg thanked her but stuck with his beer. “We haven’t had much chance to talk since I got in from parts unknown. How’s married life for you two lovebirds?”
“It’s perfect,” Heather said without hesitation.
Brody smiled. “Just what I was going to say.”
“We’re loving London,” she added. “Having my family here for the wedding is great. Helps with any homesickness.”
“You’re not down on the farm anymore,” Greg said.
“We have a construction business. My parents live in an old farmhouse, but it’s not a working farm.”
“It’s an expression, Heather.” Greg got a kick out of her. “I’m glad you two are happy. I said you would be, didn’t I?”
“You’re always right, Greg,” Heather said, then drank some of her water.
He laughed but he could feel the rawness of his exhaustion.
Brody lifted his water glass. “Are you going to pass out here, Greg? You look like you need toothpicks to keep your eyes open.”
“Here would be good but Samantha’s marine archaeologist cousin would probably sic the local cops on me.” He abandoned his beer barely two sips into it. “I’ll stumble up to my room.”
“Want me to spot you?” Brody asked.
“No.” Greg snorted as he got to his feet. “Spot me. Hell.”
He did stumble, though. Imperceptibly, he thought, but there was no denying it. He didn’t give a damn. He’d had a rough few months since crawling off his deathbed and going back to work.
How close was I to dying, Doc?
Close.
Seconds? Minutes? I want to tell my ex-wife.
His doctor hadn’t thought that was funny. Laura wouldn’t have, either, but Greg would never tell her. Divorced or not, he was the father of their two teenage children. She’d often grumbled that life as his wife was like being widowed, but she had never wanted him to die for real. Decent of her, considering she’d had a point. He’d left her high and dry too frequently during their marriage. They’d married young and had two kids right away, and they’d never been easy as a couple, not like Heather and Brody. Finally, they’d accepted they no longer were a couple and it was time to move on, end their marriage.
It hadn’t been Laura’s fault. It damn sure hadn’t been the kids’ fault.
They lived in Minnesota near Laura’s family and liked cold weather. Andrew and Megan had no idea what their father’s life was really like. They’d see a Diplomatic Security agent in a movie and think that was it. But it wasn’t.
Greg took the blame, every bit of it, for the distance between them, but he knew, at least intellectually, blame and guilt got him nowhere. He wasn’t going to let them be an excuse to keep his distance, prevent him from living the life he wanted to live.
He swore under his breath.
No way was he going to bed with all that rolling around in his head. A good night’s sleep would help, but it would elude him if he didn’t get a grip first. His demons were part of the reason for his admitted exhaustion.
He walked down the narrow hall to the bar, managing not to fall on his face. He spotted Charlotte Bennett at the bar and grinned at her when she fastened her dark eyes on him. She had creamy skin and thick, rich brown hair that hung in waves to just above her shoulders, and she wore a simple, close-fitting black dress and strappy black heels. Greg would bet a million dollars that her shoes were killing her feet, but she’d never show pain. Not the type.
He sat in a booth. It had a worn wood bench. No cushion. Aches that hadn’t bothered him in months gnawed at him now. It’d been four months since he’d defied his doctors’ predictions and had made a full recovery and returned to duty after being wounded in an ambush late last fall. He’d seen a similar determination in dark-eyed Charlotte, but maybe he’d only been projecting.
The pub had low ceilings and a large open fireplace, unlit given the warm evening. A votive candle glowed on his table. The place was owned by Ian Mabry, a former RAF pilot engaged to Alexandra Rankin Hunt, an English dress designer with a shop down the street and tangled connections to little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.
Greg ordered Scotch. “Whatever you recommend that doesn’t cost a fortune,” he told Mabry, a good-looking sandy-haired guy who didn’t seem to miss the RAF. Greg wondered if he’d miss his job when the time finally came to call it quits. He wanted that moment to be on his own terms, not a bullet’s terms. But he wasn’t contemplating his past or future this weekend, he decided. Especially not tonight, with Scotch on the way.
He settled back and observed tomorrow’s maid of honor. He didn’t know much about the Bennetts. Samantha’s grandfather, Harry Bennett, had earned an international reputation as an adventurer and explorer when he’d ventured to the Antarctic under dangerous conditions. He and some in his party had almost frozen to death. Greg gave an involuntary shiver. He figured he’d done well by not freezing to death in Minneapolis.
Laura, his ex, wouldn’t think that was funny, either.
No wonder they hadn’t been a “forever” match.
Greg focused on eyeing the curve of Charlotte Bennett’s hip under her sleek outfit.
“Do you wear dresses very often given your work as a diver?” he asked, not sure if she’d heard him. Her dagger look as she swiveled to him ended any doubt. He grinned. “No, huh? Did you have that one hanging in your closet or did you buy it special for tonight? Borrow it? Wait. Let me guess. You don’t have a closet.”
“I’m not indulging you.” She swiveled back to her drink, giving him her back again.
“That’s not apple juice you’re drinking, is it?”
No reaction. Greg decided to shut up before Ian Mabry tossed him out for being an ass. The pilot/barman delivered the Scotch himself, a smoky-but-not-too-smoky single malt from, according to Mabry, an Islay distillery.
“So it’s Eye-la not Iz-lay,” Greg said.
Mabry smiled. “I have a feeling you knew that.”
The Englishman withdrew before Greg told him yeah, he’d known. About a decade ago he’d mispronounced Islay in front of a UK-security type who’d relished trying to make him feel like a dumbass. It hadn’t worked, and they’d become friends, drinking expensive Scotch to nonexcess and deliberately mispronouncing one booze name after another.
Greg debated asking Charlotte to join him. Probably not a good idea.
One sip into his Scotch and his fatigue blanketed him, suffocating him. He should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t, instead distracting himself by teasing an obviously smart, tough marine archaeologist.
He could have tackled the fatigue, fought it off and forced himself up to his room, but he took another sip of Scotch.
And he was done.
Toast.
His weariness took him under. He didn’t fight it. There was no reason to fight it. Everyone around him was safe, and he was off duty, secure, in a quiet English pub.
Next thing, he felt something frigid-cold and wet on his neck and then rolling down his back. He bolted upright and noticed Charlotte had moved onto the bench next to him.
He shivered, the wet cold reaching the small of his back. “That was too cold to be your tongue.”
“It was ice.”
“They have ice here?”
“I asked for ice for my glass of water. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t see you pass out.” She dumped the rest of her handful of melting cubes into his Scotch. “You’re done drinking.”
“You just ruined the rest of my excellent single malt.”
�
�That was the point. Come on. I’ll help you up to your room.”
He debated protesting, but instead he stifled a yawn, his eyes half-shut. The ice had given him a jolt but he was still struggling to stay awake. He could have made it up to his room on his own, but damn. Having attractive, sexy Charlotte Bennett help him? An opportunity not to be missed. He figured he couldn’t go wrong.
“I am feeling a bit woozy,” he said.
“I wonder why.”
“I haven’t had too much to drink.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She slid an arm around his middle. “Up you go.”
She inhaled sharply as she tightened her hold on him. He liked to think it was because she was reacting to being in such close contact with him, but maybe he smelled or something. He offered no resistance as she helped him to his feet, using her legs for leverage. He was a big guy but she clearly knew what she was doing. Another good tug, and she had him on the other side of the table, near the base of the stairs.
“Not bad,” he said.
“I’m used to dealing with inebriated divers.”
“You’re a tough cookie, aren’t you?”
She gave him a steely look, the kind he’d given countless times in similar situations. “You need to call it a night, Agent Rawlings.”
“You aren’t going to dump more ice down my back, are you?”
“Would it help get you up the stairs to your room?”
“There are better ways.”
Her cheeks reddened but it could have been exertion. Probably unhelpful that he was thinking in physical terms, but maybe she was, too.
“You’re going to have to help me,” she said. “I can’t carry you.”
“No piggyback ride?”
“Not unless you...” She shook her head. “No. No piggyback ride.”
She steadied her arm around him and edged him to the stairs, then took his right hand and planted it on the rail. He glanced at her. “You’ll catch me if I fall backward?”
“I’ll get out of your way.”
“Heartless.”
“Practical. We’d both stand a better chance of not getting hurt.”
Red Clover Inn--A Romance Novel Page 2
