WOULD-BE CHRISTMAS WEDDING Page 5

  “Pardon?”

  “You said you saw the video.”

  “Right. I did. Go on.”

  “Losing a spouse isn’t an easy road, and getting past it doesn’t seem to be something most people understand. This might sound harsh, but I can honestly say I’m comfortable with where I am now and who I want to become.”

  He couldn’t reply. The emotions swirling in her eyes and that quick, nervous nip and release of her lower lip told him more than she wanted to reveal, he was sure. But her voice had been steady. She really was ready to move on with her life.

  It made him feel even more like an ass for deceiving her.

  The online dating thing had been the perfect ploy. The donation only added to the good-guy points he’d been racking up. By tomorrow, when she knew who he really was and why he’d approached her, she’d probably never forgive him.

  Over the rim of her wineglass, she studied him, her expression contemplative.

  To keep from squirming, he chose a successful field-tested tactic and went on the offensive. “Like what you see?”

  “I think you know I do.”

  He leaned forward. “Want to do anything about it?”

  “I believe I do.” She leaned forward, as well. “Let’s start with dinner.”

  They laughed, but there was no mistaking the building sexual tension between them. The conversation continued as if they were old friends rather than potential new adversaries, until the meal was delivered by the manager, who took the opportunity to greet Cecelia and chat briefly about tomorrow’s event.

  When they had the table to themselves again, Holt glanced up from the task of slicing his steak. “Does everyone in town know you?”

  “Only the people who’ve helped with the fundraisers. The manager here donated a romantic dinner package to the silent auction.”

  Holt took a bite and nearly sighed with pleasure. “I may have to make a bid,” he said. “This is worth a second trip.”

  She grinned. “Good plan.”

  Things were going so well Holt almost let down his guard and enjoyed himself. What he’d started as basic recon after that nasty warning message from Isely had turned to a genuine long-distance attraction. He’d been captivated by the depth of personality she expressed in their emails and brief phone calls. She was much more than a beautiful widow with a caring nature balanced by brains and a clever wit.

  In person, all of that was magnified. He was more than a little startled by how much he liked her. Typically, he didn’t like getting to know people—so few were reliable and everyone wanted something—but Cecelia Manning was the exception that made him want to bend his rules about relationships.

  Except this wasn’t a relationship. He had to remember this was the most critical mission of his life. If he botched this, her hurt feelings would be the least of his problems. His boss would lose his sister and their covert team of Specialists would be exposed.

  Holt had enough experience to know you didn’t reach the goal by dwelling on all the things that could go wrong. There were already so many things wrong with this situation, starting with his general trepidation about ruining tomorrow’s event, even by necessity. Yet dwelling on what could go right filled his head with thoughts of a more personal nature. If he’d suspected this kind of complication, he never would have opened an online dating account with which to lure her.

  “I apologize,” she said suddenly.

  He questioned her with raised eyebrow.

  “I’ve been rambling. I know you donated to the charity, but that doesn’t mean you want to know about the minutiae involved behind the scenes. It’s just filled all of my waking hours these last weeks.”

  “I enjoy listening to you.” It might be the truest thing he’d said all night. Her smooth voice was like cool water after a long run on a hot summer day. It just rolled over him, easing the tension he’d been hauling around since his first contact with Isely.

  “Uh-huh.” She rolled her full lips between her teeth as if she was trying not to laugh. “You glazed over for a minute.”

  “If I glazed over, it was because I was thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.”

  “Work?”

  “No.” He loaded the word with enough meaning to imply he’d been thinking something much more personal and immediate. Intimate. And while it wasn’t another outright lie, he needed to avoid all of the above. If he kept her out of Isely’s clutches, she would never need to know the difference.

  He reached across the table for her hand, then hesitated just before he touched her, giving her a chance to retreat. She didn’t. Her gaze on his, she turned her hand over and used her thumb to trace the long scar that curved down the length of his index finger.

  It was all he could do not to flinch from the gentle contact.

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell.” He was a spy who didn’t exist, a man who wouldn’t exist if he didn’t find a way to rein in Isely once and for all. He looked away, took in the perimeter of the room once more. “It was all in my profile. I’m not the sort to hold back.”

  She tipped her head to the side and traced that scar again. He wanted to tremble.

  “I don’t remember anything in your profile about this.”

  With her touching it, he was having trouble remembering the incident himself. The scar was a souvenir from a mission in Dubai. It had required minor surgery and months of rehabilitation for the nerves to recover and settle back to normal. If she kept caressing that thin white line, the nerves might never settle again.

  “I slammed it in a car door and wound up needing minor surgery. Interesting process, really.” He tilted his hand to look at it himself, but didn’t withdraw from her touch.

  “The recovery?”

  “No. The surgery.”

  Her pale eyebrows arched and her whole body went still. He found himself fascinated by the reaction, wondering how she might react in other situations. “You watched them operate?”

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “They gave me a nerve block.” Since he’d gone into the mission alone, he hadn’t had anyone around to watch his back. General anesthesia would have left him too vulnerable.

  “That’s...”

  Vulgar, sick, disgusting. He was ready for all of those words and worse.

  “Amazing,” she said, stroking her thumb across the ridge of his knuckles.

  When had such a basic touch turned so damn hot? “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me. Very few people have that kind of curiosity. Or courage.”

  “I don’t know about courage.” If he’d been wearing a tie, he would’ve tugged at it. Her eyes held something he’d rarely seen aimed his way—admiration. It left him speechless. He pulled his hand away. “Maybe I’m just an incurable insomniac.”

  She laughed, and he almost laughed with her, except one of Isely’s crew chose that moment to lumber into the restaurant bar. The dark-haired man, whom Holt knew as Cal, took up residence on a bar stool where he could clearly observe Cecelia.

  Isely’s teams were nothing if not well trained. They were always in pairs, which meant at least one more man was waiting outside or in the kitchen, ready to take Cecelia off Holt’s hands. Tonight was the wrong time to kidnap her, but Isely seemed determined to do so. What had accelerated his timetable?

  Turning off the phone had clearly been a mistake. He should have anticipated the active response. Men like Isely, who were used to having every order obeyed out of blind fear if not devotion to the cause, didn’t take it well when they were ignored.

  “Dessert?”

  “Not for me,” she replied. “But I’ll have a cup of coffee if you want to give the chocolate torte a try. It’s marvelous.”

  He could tell she wanted to check her watch or her phone
for word from her daughter. “I probably shouldn’t keep you out so late,” he said. “Your family is in town and tomorrow’s a big day for you.”

  “Our walk-through this morning went well. Everything is in place and tomorrow is just a matter of the finishing touches.” As if to emphasize the word, she touched him again. “I’m glad you’ll be there.”

  “Me, too.”

  He hoped they would both be there. If Isely succeeded tonight, Holt’s survival would be in the hands of the director. He didn’t maintain much hope that that particular source of judgment would end in his favor.

  “Let’s take pity on the waiter and get out of here.” He signaled for the check while she polished off the last bit of wine in her glass.

  Times like this reminded him a lack of family was a good thing. Enduring a few lonely holidays was no real hardship if it meant there was no one to get hurt on his behalf. He knew these threats against Cecelia were harder on the director than any of the missions he sent Specialists out to salvage.

  Business was one thing. Specialists were trained and willingly stepped into dangerous situations. But knowing an old mission and a current teammate had breached security to put a target on his sister’s back? That would have any decent man twisted up and ready to shoot first and ask questions later.

  It was one reason Director Casey’s recent marriage baffled Holt. The man’s personal philosophy of remaining a loner had been a solid foundation he’d adopted long before joining Mission Recovery. Covert operations just didn’t mix well with family dinners, piano recitals and summer vacations. Even dating was a serious minefield when it got tangled up with the job.

  “You look troubled,” she said, pulling her hair from under the collar of her coat.

  “Then it’s my turn to beg forgiveness.” He raised her hand to his lips and winked as he pressed a light kiss to her knuckles before she could put on her gloves. “Can I walk you back to your car?”

  “You could walk me back to the hotel. I’m staying there through the weekend.”

  “You don’t look all that happy about it.”

  “It was a last-minute decision. We moved gifts and a few other things in today to make tomorrow easier.”

  There was more to it. His instincts warned he needed to know. “But?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but her phone interrupted them this time. Her smile when she checked the message led him to believe all was well with her daughter. Then it faded and she paled.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  He wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t sure how hard to push. They were supposed to be new friends. “If there’s something I can do, say the word.”

  “Thanks, but I’m sure it’s just a mix-up.” She shook her head, her blond hair swinging, but the smile on her lips didn’t reach those stunning blue eyes. She tucked the phone into her pocket rather than her purse this time. “I’ll just be glad when it all comes together tomorrow night.”

  “I’m sure everyone will have a great time.”

  She raised her crossed fingers. “And drink enough champagne to write big checks.”

  He laughed with her. “I left my checkbook at home.”

  She grinned up at him. “You’ve done enough already. My family and a few close friends bought tickets. It will be nice to see them.”

  Holt almost tripped. Close friends? Who could she mean? It would be bad enough kidnapping her out from under the combined noses of her brother and daughter.

  “You aren’t very convincing,” he said, taking her hand in his as they walked along. It felt too right, too real. This was more than he’d bargained for and he was so much less than she deserved.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve chattered about myself enough for one night.”

  “Come on. I’m intrigued.” He needed to know so he could be prepared. “Maybe we should make a plan so I can be a diversion.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “It’s not a big deal.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “They mean well and I know they love me. But no one seems very enthused about me getting on with my life.”

  “Because you’re bringing a date to a charity event?”

  “No.” Her lips twisted in a wry grin. “Because they don’t know I’m dating anyone seriously.” Her eyes met his. “Tomorrow could get interesting.”

  He was sure of it. He’d carefully navigated the dating world so no woman would think to classify him as a serious prospect. He was the man women instinctively knew as the fun-while-it-lasted sort. It counted as a success that his efforts to woo Cecelia were convincing, but it unnerved him, as well.

  He didn’t want her to get hurt—by him or the ugly necessities of the op he was working out. Usually the mission was all that mattered to him. A hell of a time for this to happen.

  Keeping an eye out for Isely’s muscle, he felt the cold, calculating gazes of a surveillance team as they walked down King Street. His instincts were prickling, raising the hair at the back of his neck. Isely was obviously determined to take Cecelia as soon as possible.

  Holt wondered at the rushed timeline and knew he’d have to get to a computer soon and see what he could dig up. Maybe Jason Grant’s inquiries had set off some kind of alert on Isely’s end of this dreadful business. The way things were going, it wouldn’t surprise him to have inadvertently sabotaged himself.

  In the reflection of a shop window, Holt recognized the man following them as one of Isely’s personal bodyguards. The dark sedan that rolled by with government plates was probably a protection detail for Cecelia, courtesy of Director Casey. Just up the block, Holt spotted two more of Isely’s men approaching.

  Rock, meet hard place.

  The dark wool jackets over jeans and heavy boots made as much of a statement to an informed operative as a uniform with flashing name tags.

  Holt knew Isely typically valued subtlety and he felt the unfamiliar twist of worry at this abrupt change in the man’s method and instruction to his crew. Some new development had to be creating this urgency.

  The man had been groomed to lead one of the primary black-market operations in Europe. Vengeance had its place, but even Bernard Isely had to know it paid to keep a cool head no matter the circumstances.

  Swing music poured from speakers above a little club two doors down the street. He squeezed Cecelia’s hand. “Want to dance?”

  “Here?”

  “Here could work.” He did a quick twirl of their hands that brought her right up against him. She let out a soft gasp that lit a fire in his blood. The move put a sparkle in those big blue eyes and had the added benefit of suggesting both teams should take a step back. He brushed his cheek with hers to murmur in her ear, “But I was thinking in there would be better.”

  “Hmm. I could be persuaded.”

  “Good to know.” Now they just had to cross the short distance without Isely’s men doing anything stupid.

  It was too much to hope for.

  Isely employed them primarily for their willingness to follow orders without questions. If he’d hoped for the same blind cooperation from Holt, he was about to be disappointed. The bigger guy in the faded navy peacoat shouldered him—hard—as they passed. The contact was enough to jostle him against Cecelia and he had to reach out to keep her from bouncing into another couple on the street.

  The guy had good hands, but Holt knew the burner phone had been lifted and replaced with a new one. What new intel had bothered Isely enough to take that kind of precaution?

  Holt didn’t have more time to think about it. The shorter man had grabbed Cecelia’s purse and was tugging both the purse and the woman toward the narrow side street that cut through to the next block.

  “Let go!” Holt shouted. He didn’t care which one of them complied, but he sure as hell didn’t want to get into a fight r
ight here in the middle of King Street.

  He heard the squeal of tires and imagined the director’s surveillance team would be on them any moment. Cecelia shouted for the police and Holt noticed more than one onlooker pulling out a phone. To help or simply upload a mugging to the internet didn’t really matter. He wasn’t about to let this become a public spectacle.

  He threw his body weight into the struggle and drove both Cecelia and the would-be thief into the narrow side street and out of view.

  The tall thug closed in behind him.

  “Give us the woman,” he growled, shoving Holt forward into Cecelia.

  Accelerated timetable or not, Holt refused to hand over Cecelia to this pair. They were too rough around the edges and they looked too hungry. Had Isely put a bounty on her head? Spinning around, he raised his fist and drove a right hook into the tall man’s ear.

  The man staggered to the side, landing hard against the brick of the nearest building. The guy hadn’t expected Holt to resist. Gave him a few seconds to rescue Cecelia.

  But she was holding her own. He watched, stunned, as she used her strong grip on her purse straps to jerk her assailant closer and down, while she drove her knee up into his groin.

  “Good girl,” he said, coming to her side. He urged her toward the other end of the alley. If the squealing tires had been a team watching Cecelia, they weren’t rushing in to help. He made a note to analyze it later. Right now they needed to escape. On the next street they could catch a cab and be safely out of reach in less than twenty minutes.

  But the sound of glass breaking brought Holt back around.

  The taller man wasn’t giving up.

  “Hand her over.” He waved the bottle and charged, the sharp green edge coming closer, closer, until at the last moment, Holt blocked and turned. Determined, the taller man lurched back to his feet, advancing more cautiously this time.

  Holt circled, keeping his face to the bottle-wielding thug and trying to get a line of sight on the other man. The shorter of their assailants squared up, flashing a knife.