Snow Brides

by Webb, Peggy

  Pale street lights and a rumbling rock beat leaked out of the bar, following them as he hustled her down the narrow, cobblestone strada.

  “Slow down, would you? I can’t run in these heels.”

  He ignored her sputtering protests and tried to remember why he’d agreed to this assignment. Oh, yeah. Something about saving the world.

  Well, hell, what red-blooded American patriot could resist a stab at doing just that? He'd been born for the job. Or so complained any woman who had ever gotten too close and thought she might have a chance of taking over as the number one priority in his life.

  So, no. Josh hadn’t been able to resist. When he’d finally received the invitation to join RRA and had been offered this cock-eyed assignment, he’d have said yes to latrine duty.

  “Yes, sir, I’m up for anything, sir.” Even though it meant that Josh’s rookie run as a new recruit for the elite and clandestine international organization involved playing bodyguard to a spoiled brat of a newly minted European princess.

  “I said, slow down!” The princess demanded, putting on the skids.

  Satisfied that they were well clear of the nightclub, Josh stopped, turned and glared at five feet six inches of cover girl curves and cascading blond hair. Who could blame those poor Casanovas? This woman put the sex in sex appeal. She also put the Tick in ticked off – which he was. Royally.

  “You know,” Josh said, nailing her with a look, “if you had the sense God gave a goat, I wouldn’t have to drag you out of one scrape after another.”

  “Not up to the assignment, Haskins?”

  Baiting him? She was actually baiting him? After all the crap he’d put up with in the last five days?

  “Fine. Have your fun,” he ground out as the knot at the end of his rope finally unraveled. “Only from now you can have it without me. I’ve had it with this gig.”

  And he’d had it with the woman, who, despite her princess to peasant regard for him, somehow managed to rile both his anger and his testosterone levels to new heights. Did. Not. Compute.

  “Come on.” He latched on to her wrist and stormed off again, as angry at her as he was at himself for letting her sex-goddess looks get to him. “I’m taking you back to the hotel. Then we’re going to see about getting you a new babysitter. I’m officially turning in my nanny badge.”

  Hell. He’d thought that once he’d made the grade, cracked the RRA requirements and become an operative that he’d be knee deep in international espionage.

  So much for what he’d thought.

  Slowly, Josh became aware that she was laughing.

  Laughing.

  He stopped – and she ran smack into him. He latched on to both arms to steady her then set her none too gently away. “So happy to entertain you.”

  “Oh, you do.” Her grin widened. “I wondered how hard I was going to have to push you before you finally snapped.”

  He glared at the top of her head. She'd started tugging off her sky high stilettos.

  “Sweet heaven, that feels good.” Standing bare-foot on the cobblestones, she tossed both shoes over her shoulder into a hedge, giving them a good ride.

  He looked from the flying heels back to her face. “How hard you were going to have to push to finally make me snap?”

  “Oh, for Pete's sake, Haskins. Lighten up. You passed, okay? And none too soon for my taste. I was running out of stunts.”

  He waited three beats, watching her eyes as she dragged a tumble of hair away from her face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Okay,” she said conversationally, like he wasn’t glaring daggers and contemplating wrapping his hands around that lovely slim neck and wringing it until her tongue turned as blue as her eyes.

  “Here’s the deal, Haskins. I was a test.”

  Another three beat pause while he watched her with ever narrowing eyes. “A test.”

  “Well, Anastasia was a test. For me too, if it’s any consolation. In fact, there is no such animal – or in this case no such party animal.”

  She smiled.

  He didn’t.

  “Lieutenant Cara Graves, European base, RRA Headquarters, Barcelona. And you were my cross to bear as much as Anastasia was yours.”

  He felt his temperature rise right along with his hackles. “Cross to bear?”

  She sighed. “As you may have surmised by now, I’m not a princess. My name is not Anastasia Gehart-”

  “Got that part,” he said through his clenched jaw.

  “I’m an RRA operative who was given the assignment of testing your mettle ten ways from Sunday to make certain you were up for any task – even one as seemingly trivial and demeaning as babysitting a brat.

  “So cool your jets, Haskins,” she added, not even a tiny bit rattled when he continued to glare bullets at her. “Just settle down and congratulate yourself on a job well done.”

  She extended her hand. “You’ve passed muster. Welcome aboard.”

  Duped. He’d been duped like a UN weapons inspector.

  He ignored her hand. “This was all a set up?”

  She shrugged. “Call it an initiation. Someday, I might tell you what they did to initiate me.” She smiled again and tried for another handshake.

  “I don't give a damn what they did to you.” He spun around and headed for the hotel. “You and RRA can take your muster and your initiation and stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Hmmm. Never said you were a poor sport on your application.”

  He flipped her the bird and kept walking.

  “You really want to miss your first real field assignment?” she called after him.

  Josh stopped, turned, glared at her where she stood in a pool of light cast from a street lantern. Golden hair a gorgeous, messy tangle. Blue eyes challenging and amused. The thin strap of her short, slinky red dress, sliding off her left shoulder.

  For an instant, he had to remind himself how ticked off he was. “Oh. A real assignment?” he spat sarcastically. “What? The queen of England due for a party run and needs a driver?”

  The husky sound of her laugh had something other than his anger rising again.

  “Oh, it’s waaay better than that.”

  He considered her with enough skepticism to fill the Coliseum. “It had better be.”

  She’d walked closer and in a low and deadly serious voice told him.

  Good. God. It was good all right. As good as it got.

  * * *

  Twelve hours later

  Barcelona, Spain

  Josh waited patiently in the dimly lit situation room; adrenaline mainlined directly into his blood stream; his tension peaked right along with his curiosity. His ALICE pack sat on the floor beside his M4 assault rifle. He was pumped and ready for this mission. His first real mission with RRA.

  And he was ready to meet his new CO. A fellow warrior – not a smart mouthed wasp of an agent who played the role of diva far too well.

  Initiation my ass. Damn, he was glad to be free of Anastasia … make that Cara, he corrected with a grunt. He’d had enough of both of them, thank you very much.

  He checked his watch. Less than a quarter of an hour until they deployed. The assignment was plum, as she'd promised: Infiltrate an outer island off the Malaysian coast and the hideout of the terrorist cell, Death Toll. Find the plant that produced lethal nerve gas then neutralize and destroy both the facility and the stockpile of the deadly poison. Added bonus: Capture or eliminate the terrorists responsible.

  Piece of cake, he thought with a grim look at the terrain map tacked to the wall and hoped his lawyer had finished the last minute changes to his will. If anything happened to him, he wanted his nephew taken care of.

  A door opened behind him. Josh snapped to attention without turning around. Only one other person had clearance for this room at this hour. His new CO.

  “At ease, Sergeant.”

  Josh stopped breathing. Was pretty sure his heart stopped beating, too.

  He knew t
hat voice. What he didn’t know, was why he was hearing it now.

  “I said at ease.”

  He turned slowly as Lieutenant Cara Graves walked into the room, combat ready in jungle camos, M16 in hand, a modified ALICE pack strapped to her back.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Josh finally managed when he could get his mouth to work.

  “Wanna rephrase that, Sergeant?”

  Josh swallowed, eyes dead ahead as Lt. Graves moved to stand directly in front of him.

  “What the hell are you doing here, sir?” he repeated crisply.

  But deep in his gut, he already knew. Damn it all to hell, he knew.

  “You got a problem working with a female operative, Haskins?”

  He had a problem working with this female operative.

  “No, sir,” he gritted out, knowing that if he voiced his objections he’d be off the op faster than you could say, You blew it, buddy.

  “Got a problem with a female outranking you?”

  Lord, help him.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good answer.”

  Oh, she knew he was ticked.

  “Good.” She headed for the door. “Then grab your gear. Transport bird's waiting to take us to the Philippines. And pull the bug out of your butt, sergeant. Let’s go save the world.”

  * * *

  December 22

  1:20 pm

  “Remember that you heard it here first folks.”

  Don McDowell flashed pearly white teeth to the camera and stacked his pages of copy on the desk in front of him. “KCRG TV 9 first alert weather is not afraid to predict that the Cedar Rapids viewing area is either going to dodge a major bullet or we're going to get hit with potentially the most massive winter blizzard seen in this area in almost a century.”

  Julie Paul, the evening anchor, gave Don a comical smile. “Wow, Don. Could you be any more ambiguous?”

  Don chuckled and the camera followed the weatherman as he rose from his desk and moved in front of an Iowa weather map swirling with radar simulations, snowflakes and as an added humorous touch, question marks.

  “I couldn't be more vague if I tried, Julie. Let me try to explain why the forecast is such a mystery.”

  Don manipulated the map with the touch of his finger to include several western and northern states as well as the southern part of Canada. “Many of you have been aware of Blizzard Holly, whose genesis was in Canada before she swooped down into Montana, Colorado, back up to Nebraska, then east into South Dakota.”

  He turned back to face the camera. “Holly is currently blasting Minnesota and all indications are that she has no predilection to blow herself out anytime soon. Based on the route she's taken she may – or may not,” he added with a smile of caution, “find her way down through east central Iowa.

  “Why, you might ask, can't I be more specific? Well, there are so many variables in play as of now that even the National Weather Service's state of the art computers can't pinpoint the storm's path or its full effect on Iowa. Forecast details will become clearer and more accurate as this blizzard keeps churning through Minnesota.

  “Those variables include a low pressure system here.” He used a hand-held remote to zero in on the map. “The jet stream over here, upper level winds, and how much cold air is in place when, or if, the storm arrives. Even a relatively small change in this low pressure system, for instance, can make a huge difference. A shift one way can create blizzard conditions while the other way could bring only a light dusting of snow.”

  His expression became serious. “Here at TV 9, we realize how critical it is for you all to know what weather you may be facing in the near future. It's almost Christmas, after all. Many of you have travel plans or family planning to visit you. For that reason, we're taking a very cautious approach to predicting the effect Holly will have on our viewing area.”

  The camera moved in for a close up. “Rest assured, we are monitoring this storm like NASA monitors a rocket launch. We'll cut into regular programming if necessary to keep you up to date on Holly's path and velocity and the severity of the snowfall, the wind and the cold.

  “In the meantime, look for cloudy skies tomorrow with a high of twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit and north winds no more than five miles per hour. Sunrise will be at 7:31am and we should have a beautiful sunset at 4:38pm.

  “Have a great rest of your evening and all day tomorrow. Julie – back to you...”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  December 23rd

  T'was the season. Family. Friends. Food. Ho. Ho. Ho. The team was definitely due for some R & R. They weren't going to get it. Not yet. At least Cara wasn't. Neither, she'd decided, was Haskins.

  Another flight announcement over the din of the crowds waiting at Chicago, O'Hare, Terminal C, had her rising wearily to her feet.

  “That's us.” Cara shouldered her carry-on and got in line with the passengers boarding the December 23th, 12:10 pm flight from Chicago, to Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

  Her Christmas holiday. Not how Cara had seen it playing out. The RRA jet had delivered them from NYC to Chicago an hour ago but it was commercial from here on in. They didn't want to draw any undue attention. A private Gulfstream flying into the small airport in Cedar Rapids this close to Christmas probably wouldn't raise any red flags but it could draw some speculative attention and that was the last thing they wanted.

  Keeping a low profile was already a bit tricky considering that Haskins drew the interest of most women and a few envious men. It was human nature. When you saw a six foot four, ruggedly attractive, mature male who could easily pose for the cover of MEN's HEALTH magazine, it was hard not to stare. Especially when his gaze landed, even briefly, on you. Steel gray. Piercing. Aged to perfection from creases fed by the sun and combat and living on the edge.

  So low profile? Not so much. Not with Haskins on the scene. Still, it was economy seats and a valiant attempt at playing average Jane and Joe. Carry on only. There hadn't been time for packing so they'd each brought only specific technical surveillance gadgetry that they'd need and couldn't buy when they got there. RRA had provided them both with night vision glasses equipped with infrared thermal imaging cameras. As far as she knew, they were the first to field test this new version.

  Otherwise, if they needed anything else they'd have to buy it locally. And hope everything wasn't sold out this close to Christmas. Guess they'd soon find out.

  Icy air stung Cara's cheeks, making her eyes water as they crossed the open tarmac toward the small airbus that would deliver them to Cedar Rapids in under an hour.

  Haskins, a North Carolina boy, tucked his chin into the collar of his jacket but didn't grumble about the cold. Haskins never grumbled. He glared. He simmered. Sometimes, he even boiled. But like a good soldier, he followed orders and did his job. Did it with precision and skill and if he had a problem with her performance as the team leader and as his CO, he hadn’t shown it on a single one of their many missions during the last year and a half.

  He clearly, however, had a problem with her. With being around her. With sometimes being very near to her in the often close confines required by their operations.

  She wasn't mistaken about that. She felt something. The crackle. The sizzle. Even the occasional fissure in his concentration. And none of it had anything to do with his test as Anastasia's baby sitter. No. This had nothing to do with Anastasia and everything to do with Cara Graves.

  Aware of him walking with purpose across the tarmac behind her, she kept her eyes dead ahead, shivering against the brutal cold as she climbed the open jet stairs. In her experience, there weren't many places colder than a flat, windy tarmac in the middle of winter.

  She quickly found her seat in the sixty-passenger air bus and dropped heavily into it. Low on sleep from the scramble to make this mission, she was determined to at least catch a power nap on the hour long flight.

  The flight to Iowa. A flyover state. Corn, if she remembered right. Cows. Oh, yeah. And
a state fair made famous in the vintage movie Music Man and for a cow made of butter. Homeland, USA. Not exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity. Cold as a freezer the end of December – just like it was in Chicago, NYC, and Boston.

  She had high hopes that with any luck, this would be a quick recon mission. They'd be in and out. Twenty-four hours max. Then she’d head back to Boston in time for Christmas dinner at her sister’s. She had big plans to gorge herself on pumpkin pie, zone out to the crackling of an apple wood fire, and watch her gorgeous five year old twin nieces plow into the presents she'd brought them.

  Sometimes she wanted that. Home, hearth, kids and a dog. Yeah, especially around the holidays, she questioned her dangerous and solitary career choice. But then a mission would come up. The adrenaline would start rushing through her bloodstream and she knew why she did what she did.

  Someday. Maybe. While she was still young enough to have children and not too old to learn how to cook.

  Smiling at herself for lapsing into a bit of melancholy, she stowed her gear under the seat, buckled herself in and closed her eyes, peripherally aware of Haskins buckling in across the aisle.

  His broad shoulders and long legs over-filled the skimpy seat. She didn't have to look at him to know that his steely gray eyes betrayed no emotion. As usual. The man was a bit of an enigma. And she found him a bit too interesting. That was all going to change.

  Right now, she needed that power nap. If she was lucky, she'd be asleep before the landing gear tucked into the belly of the jet. But instead of sleeping, she found herself thinking about Haskins again.

  Why had she chosen him for this mini mission? Well, not exactly chosen. He'd volunteered like a good team member so the others could enjoy their holiday with family. Which worked out fine because if he hadn't stepped up, she'd been going to tap him for the op anyway.

  She'd decided it was time to admit that she had a little problem with him. A problem a commanding officer didn’t need with a subordinate. A problem that was universally wrong under any operational circumstances.