Agent Bride. Beverly Long
checked in, I asked for two rooms. I thought maybe I’d try to get some sleep before going on to my final destination. That’s when the guy told me that he only had one room with one bed. I told him that I’d take it, that my brother and I would have to sleep together. I laughed it off, said we’d done it as kids, that we could probably do it for one more night. He gave me two keys, one for me and one for my brother.”
She’d seen the hotel clerk shake his head. When she’d asked Cal about it, he’d dismissed it. Just didn’t understand what I was asking for.
“You lied to me earlier,” she said.
He shrugged. “I thought if you knew that I was interested in getting a room that you’d feel compelled to offer to share this one. I didn’t think that would work out so well for you when your new husband showed up.”
She did not have a new husband. At least she didn’t think so.
“You might want to take your wedding gown and veil out of the garbage,” he said, looking in the far corner. “That might not make him feel so great, either.”
She’d stuffed the offensive items into the brown plastic wastebasket. They spilled over the edge.
“You know,” he said, “that’s how I found you. I saw your veil blowing in the wind.”
It was a miracle that he’d been able to see it, especially in white-out conditions. Most people would have driven by, clueless that a woman was freezing to death.
She was getting a sense that Cal Hollister wasn’t most people. “So the hotel clerk thinks there are two men in this room. He doesn’t know about me,” she said.
“Nope. I suppose it’s possible that he saw you get out of the car but I don’t think so. Angle was wrong, plus the guy is obsessed with whatever he has on his phone.”
She was safe. For the meantime. But who were these men? Why would they be chasing after her? She lifted her chin. “I certainly appreciate you letting me know,” she said.
He sat up and frowned at her. “Congrats on being so very civilized and proper. Here’s the thing, though. I don’t think they were here to invite you to tea. So, I don’t think good manners are going to be all that helpful in this situation.”
He wouldn’t think she had a civilized bone in her body if he knew how close she was to losing it, to screaming and kicking the damn bed.
“Why are they looking for you?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Stormy. You can do better than that.”
“I. Don’t. Know. And I don’t know who the men are. In fact, how do I even know that you’re telling the truth?” She tossed her hair and tried not to wince when it hurt her head. “How do I know that you didn’t just want a reason to come back to my room? How do I know that you’re not my biggest worry?”
He stood up. “If I was, you’d already know it for sure. Now, I suggest you start thinking about what you’re going to do when those men come back. I know the type. They won’t want to be bested by a woman. And whoever is paying for those expensive cars isn’t going to be happy that his guys couldn’t get the job done. When they don’t find you up the road, they’ll come back and start turning over rocks. The motel clerk will break in about ten seconds and he’ll be opening every one of the rooms for them to inspect.”
Something told her that he was right. Some past experience.
“How long do you think I have?” she asked.
He shrugged. “They told the desk clerk that you would have arrived within the last hour. So, I think their radius will be anywhere you could have gotten in an hour. On a normal day, that’s seventy miles, give or take. Today, half that at most. Today, they’ll be forced to stick to the main roads. But in a day or less, when this storm dies down, they’ll be able to cover ground much more quickly.”
“How long?” she repeated.
“I think you’ve got eighteen to twenty-four hours. After that, you better be on your game.”
Was she on her game? Not hardly. Something flashed in her head. She shook it, trying to clear it.
“What?” he prodded, maybe thinking that she wasn’t taking the threat seriously.
“You said I needed to be on my game. And all I can think of is Leon Durham.”
“The baseball player?” he asked, as if he really couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah. He played first base. Talented player but unfortunately, there was the time he let a ball roll through his legs.”
“In 1984. Cubs versus Padres,” he said. “Padres went on to win.” He paused. “How the hell do you know these things?”
She had no idea. It was just there.
It was horribly frightening. She had men chasing after her and all she had a grasp on was useless baseball facts. “Well, Mr. Hollister, it appears that I continue to be in your debt.” She looked toward the door, to give him the hint.
“You can start paying up right now,” he said.
What? He couldn’t be suggesting...that, could he? “It’s time for you to leave,” she said more sternly.
“Nope.” He lay back on the pillow, stretched his long legs out and kicked off his boots. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.
“You can’t stay here,” she said, louder and with more of a shrill than she expected.
He opened one eye. “I’m tired. I’ve lost the better part of the evening helping you. Now, I don’t care if you want to sit in that chair all night or if you decide to stretch out next to me, but I’m getting some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”
“But...”
“Your virtue is safe with me. I don’t date married women and I certainly don’t sleep with them. And,” he said, “don’t get any ideas of rubbing that shampoo you’ve got cupped in your hands in my eyes. That would just piss me off.”
She had never been so furious. Or so grateful. It was preposterous that he was bulldozing his way into her room but there was something about him that, quite frankly, made her feel safe.
She needed sleep and she didn’t intend to do it in this chair. She got up, went into the bathroom to wash her hands and came back. “You don’t happen to have a nail file, do you?”
He lowered his chin. “Do I look like I file my nails?” he asked, his tone low.
“Not really. I thought you were the Abominable Snowman earlier,” she added. “And I guess he probably doesn’t file his nails either,” she finished weakly.
He laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him do that. It was nice.
He got off the bed, rummaged in the duffel bag that he’d tossed on the floor and came out with a small plastic box. He opened it and tossed a pair of clippers her direction. “Will these work?”
“Yes.” She was so grateful to be able to fix her poor nails that she quickly started clipping. She put the discarded nails in a pile and, when she was finished, dumped them in the wastebasket in the corner of the room, on top of the horrible dress.
“You really messed up your hands,” he said. “How did you do that?”
She was ready for the question. Had anticipated it while she was clipping. Felt good that she was functioning at a level where her brain was working again. “Bridal shower,” she said. “Nasty boxes with too much tape.”
“Uh-huh.”
She pulled back the covers on her side and crawled in, ignoring the fact that six feet of handsome muscle was on the other side of the bed.
He