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Wed in Wyoming
Allison Leigh
What was it about the Clay women and alpha males…? Growing up in a family of alpha male ranchers had taught EMT Angeline Clay all about arrogant men like Brody Paine. She’d even mastered the art of rejecting the sexy agent’s none-too-subtle overtures. But this time, Angeline was out of her league…because two children’s lives depended on her masquerading as Brody’s wife! All too soon the high stakes, close quarters and Brody’s unexpected acts of kindness towards their charges wore down her defences.And it wasn’t long after a tender kiss turned into something less innocent that Angeline began dreaming about a big Wyoming wedding with Brody by her side…


“What am I going to do about you?”
Angeline asked aloud as she stepped forward again, right into the V of his legs. Her chocolate-brown eyes were on a level with his mouth, and their focus seemed to be fixated there.
“You’re going to bandage me up,” he said, but his voice was gruff. Damn near hoarse.
“In a minute,” Angeline whispered. She leaned into him, tilting her head and, light as a whisper, she rubbed her lips over his.
She’d started out feeling tenderness.
That was all, Angeline reassured herself. Just tenderness for this man whose unexpected acts of kindness touched her just as much as his more “creative” stunts shocked her.
But tenderness was abruptly eaten up in the incendiary flames that rose far too rapidly for her to fight.
Instead, she stood there, caught, as wildfire seemed to lick through them both.
For my editor, Ann Leslie. Thank you for your patience, flexibility and general excellence. I think we’ve come a long way together!
ALLISON LEIGH
started early by writing a Halloween play that her school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.
She has been a finalist in the RITA
Award and Holt Medallion contests. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that she laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep while reading one of her books.
Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighbourhood church, and she currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

Dear Reader,
Many years ago, I wrote about a minor character – a little girl, orphaned in another country, who snagged the heart of one of the Clay brothers, Daniel. In the end, not only was Daniel united with his soul mate, Maggie, and her little blond munchkin, JD, but their new family grew even more when they were joined by sweet Angeline.
Little did I know that some day Angeline would grow up and find a story of her own, or that the secret agency partly responsible for that long-ago rescue from the orphanage would play such a part of so many of my stories. From one agent to another, that Hollins-Winword world just seems to keep growing, ever entwining, and even I am sometimes surprised with the pairings that result.
But that’s one of those fascinating – and often frustrating! – things about writing…you think you know what your characters are going to do, and who they’ll end up with, but quite often they have an entirely different idea. I never really intended Angeline for Brody Paine, but once he stuck his handsome nose in her business, well… this author had to just move out of the way and let them both have their way.
After all, who wants to stand in the way of true love?
Allison

Wed in Wyoming
Allison Leigh


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Prologue
November
“Are you insane? What if someone sees you here?” Angeline Clay looked away from the tall man standing in the shadows of the big house to the wedding reception guests milling around behind her, barely twenty yards away.
“They won’t.” The man’s deep voice was amused. “You forget, sweet cheeks, what I do for a living.”
She rolled her eyes. They stood outside the circle of pretty lights that had been strung around the enormous awning protecting the tables and the dance floor from the chilly Wyoming weather. Her cousin Leandra and her brand-new husband, Evan Taggart, were in the center of the floor dancing away, surrounded by nearly every other member of Angeline’s extensive family. “I’m not likely to forget, Brody,” she assured drily.
Since then, her brief encounters with the man had been few and far between, but they’d nevertheless been memorable.
Annoying, really, considering that Angeline prided herself on keeping her focus squarely where it belonged. Which was most assuredly not the impossible appeal of the elusive Brody Paine.
She flexed her bare fingers around the empty platter that she had been on her way to the kitchen to refill when Brody had stepped into her path. “How’d you even know I was here, anyway?”
The corner of his lips lifted. “It’s a small world, babe. You know that.”
Sweet cheeks. Babe.
She stifled a sigh. She couldn’t recall Brody ever using her actual name. Which was probably one of the reasons why she’d never tried very hard to take the man seriously when it came to anything of a personal nature.
When it came to the work he did, however, she took him quite seriously because Brody Paine was well and truly one of the good guys. Since she’d learned at a particularly early age that the world was definitely on the shy side when it came to such people, she tried to give credit where it was due.
“I’m just visiting Weaver,” she reminded him. “For the Thanksgiving holiday and Leandra’s wedding. I’m going back to Atlanta soon.”
He blandly reeled off her flight number, telling her not very subtly that he was perfectly aware of her schedule. “The agency likes to keep track of its assets.”
She looked behind her again, but there was nobody within earshot. Of course. Brody wouldn’t be likely to mention the agency if there had been. “I’m hardly an asset,” she reminded him needlessly. She was a courier of sorts, true. But in the five years she’d worked for the agency, all she conveyed were pieces of information from one source to another. Even then, she was called on to do so only once or twice a year. It was a schedule that seemed to suit everyone.
“Believe me, hon. You’ve got more than any woman’s fair share of assets,” he assured drily. His gaze—she’d never been certain if it was naturally blue or brown because she’d seen his eye color differ over the years—traveled down her body. “Of course for some stubborn reason you keep refusing to share them with me.”
She’d seen appreciation in men’s eyes when they looked at her since she’d hit puberty. She was used to it. But she still felt absurdly grateful for the folds of the cashmere cape that flowed around her taupe-colored dress beneath it. “That’s right,” she said dismissively. “I assume this isn’t a social call?”
His lips twitched again. “Only because you’re a stubborn case, sweet cheeks.”
Her lips tightened. “Brody—”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He lifted one long-fingered hand. “I’m actually in the middle of another gig.” He looked amused again. “But I was asked to give you this.”
She realized that a small piece of paper was tucked between his index and middle finger. She plucked it free, careful not to touch him, only to nearly jump out of her skin when his fingers suddenly closed around her wrist.
She gave him a startled look.
The amusement from his face had been wiped away. “This is important.”
Nerves tightened her throat. She wasn’t used to seeing Brody looking so serious. “Isn’t it always?” He’d told her, chapter and verse, from the very beginning just how important and sensitive her work with Hollins-Winword was.
“Like everything else in life, importance can be relative.”
Behind them, the deejay was calling for everyone’s attention since the bride and groom were preparing to cut their wedding cake. “I need to get back there. Before someone comes looking for me.”
He slowly released her wrist. She stopped herself from rubbing the tingling that remained there just in time.
The man was entirely too observant. Which was, undoubtedly, one of the qualities that made him such an excellent agent. But the last thing she wanted him to know was that he had any kind of affect on her.
They were occasionally connected business associates and that was all. If the guy knew she’d been infatuated with him for years—well, she simply didn’t want him knowing. Period. Maybe the knowledge would make a difference to him, and maybe it wouldn’t. But she didn’t intend to find out.
Playing immune to him was already hard enough.
She couldn’t imagine how hard it would be if she spent any real time with the man.
He gave that small smile of his that had her wondering if mind reading was among his bag of tricks. “See you next time, babe.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the partygoers. “Drink some champagne for me.”
She glanced back, too. Leandra and Evan were standing in front of the enormous, tiered wedding cake. “I can probably get you a glass without anyone noticing. Cake, too.”
She looked back when he didn’t answer.
The only thing she saw was the dark, tall form of him disappearing into the cold night.
Chapter One
May
“I still think you’re insane.”
Since Angeline had last seen Brody Paine almost six months ago, he’d grown a scruffy brown beard that didn’t quite mask the smile he gave at her pronouncement.
His sandy-brown hair hung thick and long around his ears, clearly in desperate need of a cut, and along with that beard, he looked vaguely piratical.
“Seems like you’re always telling me that, babe.”
Angeline lifted her eyebrows pointedly. They were sitting in a Jeep that was currently stuck lug nut deep in Venezuelan mud. “Take a clue from the theme,” she suggested, raising her voice to be heard above the pounding rain.
As usual, he seemed to pay no heed of her opinion. Instead, he peered through the rain-washed windshield, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel. The vehicle itself looked as if it had been around about a half century.
It no longer possessed such luxuries as doors, and the wind that had been carrying sheets of rain for each of the three days since Angeline had arrived in Venezuela kept up its momentum, throwing a stinging spray across her and Brody.
The enormous weather system that was supposed to have veered away from land and calmly die out over the middle of the ocean hadn’t behaved that way at all. Instead, it had squatted over them like some tormenting toad, bringing with it this incessant rain and wind. May might be too early for a hurricane, but Mother Nature didn’t seem to care much for the official calendar.
She huddled deeper in the seat. The hood of her khaki-colored rain poncho hid most of her head, but she still felt soaked from head to toe.
That’s what she got for racing away from the camp in Puerto Grande the way she had. If she’d stopped to think longer, she might have at least brought along some warmer clothes to wear beneath the rain poncho.
Instead, she’d given All-Med’s team leader, Dr. Miguel Chavez, a hasty excuse that a friend in Caracas had an emergency, and off she’d gone with Brody in this miserable excuse of a vehicle. She knew they wouldn’t expect her back anytime soon. In good weather, Caracas was a day away.
“The convent where the kids were left is up this road,” he said, still drumming. If he was as uncomfortable with the conditions as she, he hid it well. “There’s no other access to St. Agnes’s. Unless a person was airlifted in. And that ain’t gonna happen in this weather.” His head bounced a few times, as if he were mentally agreeing with whatever other insane thoughts were bouncing around inside.
She angled her legs in the hard, ripped seat, turning her back against the driving rain. “If we walked, we could make it back to the camp at Puerto Grande before dark.” Though dark was a subjective term, considering the oppressive clouds that hung over their heads.
Since she’d turned twenty, she’d visited Venezuela with All-Med five times, but this was the worst weather she’d ever encountered.
“Only way we’re going is forward, sweetie.” He sighed loud enough to be heard above the rain that was pounding on the roof of the vehicle. His jeans and rain poncho were caked with mud from his repeated attempts to dislodge the Jeep.
“But the convent is still miles away.” They were much closer to the camp where she’d been stationed. “We could get some help from the team tomorrow. Work the Jeep free of the mud. They wouldn’t have to know that we were trying to get up to St. Agnes instead of to Caracas.”
“Can’t afford to waste that much time.”
She huffed out a breath and stared at the man. He truly gave new meaning to the word stubborn.
She angled her back even farther against the blowing wind. Her knees brushed against the gearshift, and when she tried to avoid that, they brushed against his thigh.
If that fact was even noticeable to him, he gave no indication whatsoever. So she left her knee right where it was, since the contact provided a nice little bit of warmth to her otherwise shivering body.
Shivers caused by cold and an uncomfortable suspicion she’d had since he unexpectedly appeared in Puerto Grande.
“What’s the rush?” she asked. “You told me we were merely picking up the Stanley kids from the convent for their parents.”
“We are.”
Her lips tightened. “Brody—”
“I told you to call me Hewitt, remember?”
There was nothing particularly wrong with the name, but he definitely didn’t seem a “Hewitt” type to her. Brody was energy itself all contained within long legs, long hands and a hard body. If she had to be stuck in the mud at the base of a mountain in a foreign country, she supposed Brody was about the best companion she could have. She wouldn’t go so far as to call the man safe, but she did believe he was capably creative when the situation called for it.
“Fine, Hewitt,” she returned, “so what’s the rush? The children have been at the convent for nearly two months. What’s one more night?” He’d already filled her in on the details of how Hewitt Stanley—the real Hewitt Stanley—and his wife, Sophia, had tucked their two children in the small, exceedingly reclusive convent while they trekked deep into the most unreachable portions of Venezuela to further their latest pharmaceutical quest.
Brody had, supposedly, enlisted Angeline’s help because he claimed he couldn’t manage retrieving both kids on his own.
“The Santina Group kidnapped Hewitt and Sophia two days ago.”
“Excuse me?”
Despite the rough beard, his profile as he peered through the deluged windshield could have been chiseled from the mountains around them. “Do you ever wonder about the messages you’re asked to dispatch?”
“No.”
“Never.” He gave her another one of those mind reader looks.
Sometimes, honesty was a darned nuisance.
“Yes. Of course I am curious sometimes,” she admitted. “But I don’t make any attempt to satisfy that curiosity. That’s not my role. I’m just the messenger. And what does that have to do with the Stanleys?”
He raised one eyebrow. “When I gave you that intel back in November, you didn’t wonder about it?” He didn’t quite sound disbelieving, but the implication was there.
“There are lots of things I wonder about, but I don’t have the kind of clearance to know more. Maybe I prefer it that way.” The tidbits of information that she dispatched were not enough to give her real knowledge of the issues that Hollins-Winword handled. It was a tried-and-true safety measure, not only for her personal safety, but for those around her, the agency’s work and the agency itself.
She knew that. Understood that. Welcomed it, even.
She believed in her involvement with Hollins-Winword. But that didn’t mean she was anxious to risk her neck over four sentences, which was generally the size of the puzzle pieces of information with which she was entrusted. Brody’s message for her that night at Leandra and Evan’s wedding reception had been even briefer.
Stanley experimenting. Sandoval MIA.
She’d memorized the information—hardly difficult in this case—and shortly after she’d returned to Atlanta, she’d relayed the brief missive to the impossibly young-looking boy who’d spilled his backpack on the floor next to her table at a local coffee shop.
She’d knelt down beside him and helped as he’d packed up his textbooks, papers and pens, and three minutes later, he was heading out the door with his cappuccino and the message, and she was sitting back down at her table with her paperback book and her latte.
“You didn’t look twice at the name Sandoval.”
Somehow, cold water had snuck beneath the neck of her poncho and was dripping down the back of her spine. She tugged the hood of her poncho farther over her forehead but it was about as effective as closing the barn door after the horse was already out, considering the fact that she was already soaked. “Does it matter? Sandoval’s not that unusual of a name.”
His lips twisted. “How old were you when you left Santo Marguerite?”
The kernel inside her suddenly exploded, turning tense curiosity into a sickening fear that she didn’t want to acknowledge. “Four.” Old enough to remember that the name of the man who’d destroyed the Central American village where she’d been born, along with nearly everyone else who’d lived there, had been Sandoval.
She reached out and closed her hand over his slick, wet forearm. “I’m no good at guessing games, Brody. Just tell me what you want me to know. Is Sandoval involved with the kidnapping?”
His gaze flicked downward, as if surprised by the contact, and she hastily drew back, curling her cold hands together.
“We haven’t been able to prove it, but we believe that he is the money behind the Santina Group. On the other hand, we know Santina funds at least two different black market organizations running everything from drugs and weapons to human trafficking. According to the pharmaceutical company Hewitt works for, he was on to something huge. Has to do with some little red frog about the size of my fingernail.”
He shook his head, as if the entire matter was unfathomable to him. “Anyway, the pharmacy folks will try to replicate synthetically the properties of this frog spit, or whatever the hell it is.” His voice went terse. “And in the right hands, that’s fine. But those properties are also the kind of properties that in the wrong hands, could bring a whole new meaning to what profit is in the drug trade.”
“They’ve got the parents and now they’re after the kids, too. Sandoval or Santina or whoever,” she surmised, feeling even more appalled.
“We’re working on that theory. One of Santina’s top men—Rico Fuentes—was spotted in Caracas yesterday morning. Sophia Stanley’s parents were Venezuelan, and she inherited a small apartment there when they died. The place was tossed yesterday afternoon.”
“How can you be sure the kids are even at the convent?”
“Because I tossed the apartment yesterday morning and found Sophia’s notes she’d made about getting there, and packing clothes and stuff for the kids. I didn’t leave anything for ol’ Rico to find but who knows who Hewitt and Sophia may have told about their kids’ whereabouts. I’ve got my people talking to everyone at the pharmaceutical place, and so far none of them seems to know anything about the convent, but…” He shrugged and looked back at the road.
“Hewitt obviously knew they were on to something that would be just as significant to the bad guys as to the good,” he told her. “Otherwise, why squirrel away their kids the way they did? They could have just hired a nanny to mind them while they went exploring in the tepuis.” He referred to the unearthly, flattop mountains located in the remote southeast portion of the country. She knew the region was inhabited by some extremely unusual life-forms.
“Instead,” he went on, “they used the convent where Sophia’s mother once spent time as a girl.”
“If this Rico person gets to the children, Santina could use them as leverage to make sure Hewitt cooperates.”
“Bingo.”
“What about Hewitt and Sophia, though? How will they even know their kids are still safe? Couldn’t these Santina group people lie?”
“Hell yeah, they could lie. They will lie. But there’s another team working on their rescue. Right now, we need to make certain that whatever threats made concerning those kids are a lie.”
She blew out a long breath. “Why not go to the authorities? Surely they’d be of more help.”
“Which local authorities do you think we can implicitly trust?”
She frowned. Miguel had often complained about the thriving black market and its rumored connection to the local police. “Brody, this kind of thing is way beyond me. I’m not a field agent. You know that better than anyone.” Her involvement with Hollins-Winword had only ever involved the transmittal of information!
A deep crevice formed down his cheek as the corner of his lips lifted. “You are now, sweet cheeks.”
“I do have a name,” she reminded.
“Yeah. And until we get the kids outta this country, it’s Sophia Stanley.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Beg all you want. There’s a packet in the glove box.”
She fumbled with the rusting button and managed to open the box. It was stuffed with maps and an assortment of hand tools. The packet, she assumed, was the dingy envelope wedged between a long screwdriver and a bundle of nylon rope. She pulled it out and lifted the flap. Inside was a narrow gold ring with a distinctive pattern engraved on it and several snapshots.
He took the envelope and turned the contents out into his hand. “Here.” He handed her the ring. “Put this on.”
She gingerly took the ring from him and started to slide it on her right hand.
He shook his head. “Left hand. It’s a wedding ring, baby cakes.”
Feeling slightly sick to her stomach, she pushed the gold band over her cold wedding-ring finger. It was a little loose. She curled her fingers into her palm, holding it in place.
She’d never put a ring on that particular finger before, and it felt distinctly odd.
“This,” he held up a picture, “is Sophia.”
A laughing woman with long dark hair smiled at the camera. She looked older than Angeline, but overall, their coloring was nearly identical, from their olive-toned skin to their dark brown eyes.
“Not a perfect match,” Brody said. “You’re prettier. But you’ll have to do.”
She frowned, not sure if that was a compliment or not, but he took no notice.
“These are the kids. Eva’s nine. Davey’s four.” He handed her a few more pictures, barely giving her time to examine one before handing her the next. “And this is papa bear.”
If the situation hadn’t been as serious as she knew it was, she would have laughed right out loud. The real Hewitt Stanley definitely matched the mental image his name conjured.
Medium height. Gangly and spectacled. Even from the snapshot, slightly blurred though it was, the man’s un-Brody-ness shined through. Other than the fact that they were both male, there was nothing remotely similar between the two men. “This is who you’re pretending to be.”
“You’d be surprised at the identities I’ve assumed,” he said, taking back the photographs when she handed them to him. He tucked them back in the envelope, which then disappeared beneath his rain poncho.
“Why do we even need to pretend to be the Stanleys, anyway? The nuns at the convent will surely know we’re not the people who left their children in their safekeeping.”
“Generally, the Mother Superior deals with outsiders. She’s definitely the only one who would have met with Hewitt and Sophia when they took in the children. And she’s currently stuck in Puerto Grande thanks to the weather that we are not going to let stop us.”
“Maybe we can fool a few nuns,” she hesitated for a moment, rather expecting a bolt of lightning to strike at the very idea of it, “but the kids will know we’re not their parents. They will certainly have something to say about going off with two complete strangers.”
“The Stanleys had a code word for their kids. Falling waters. When we get that to them, they’ll know we’re there on behalf of their parents.”
The situation could not possibly become anymore surreal. “How do you know that?”
“Because I do. Believe me, if I thought we could just walk into that convent up there and tell the nuns we were taking the kids away for their own safety, I would. But there’s a reason Hewitt and Sophia chose the place. It’s hellacious to reach, even on a good day. It’s cloistered. It’s small; barely even a dot on the satellite imaging.”
Again she felt that panicky feeling starting to crawl up her throat. “W-what if we fail?” The last time she’d failed had been in Atlanta, and it hadn’t had anything to do with Hollins-Winword. But it had certainly involved a child.
He gave her a sidelong look. “We won’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this when you showed up at the aid camp?” If he had, she would have found some reason to convince him to find someone else.
“Too many ears.” He reached beneath his seat and pulled out a handgun. So great was her surprise, she barely recognized it as a weapon.
In a rapid movement he checked the clip and tucked the gun out of sight where he’d put the envelope of photographs beneath his rain poncho.
She’d grown up on a ranch, so she wasn’t unfamiliar with firearms. But the presence of rifles and shotguns hanging in the gun case in her father’s den was a far cry from the thing that Brody had just hidden away. “We won’t need that though, right?”
“Let’s hope not.” He gave her a look, as if he knew perfectly well how she felt about getting into a situation where they might. “I don’t want to draw down on a nun anymore than the next guy. If we can convince them we’re Hewitt and Sophia Stanley, we won’t have to. But believe me, sweet cheeks, they’re better off if I resort to threats than if Santina’s guy does. They don’t draw the line over hurting innocent people. And if we’re not as far ahead of the guy as I hope, you’re going to be pretty happy that I’ve got—” he patted his side “—good old Delilah with us, sweet cheeks.”
He named his gun Delilah?
She shook her head, discomfited by more than just the gun.
Sandoval certainly hadn’t drawn the line over hurting people, she knew. Not when she’d been four and the man had destroyed her family’s village in a power struggle for control of the verdant land. When he’d been in danger of losing the battle, he’d destroyed the land, too, rather than let someone beat him.
“It’s not sweet cheeks,” she said, and blamed her shaking voice on the cold water still sneaking beneath her poncho. “It’s Sophia.”
Brody slowly smiled. “That’s my girl.”
She shivered again and knew, that time, that it wasn’t caused entirely by cold or nerves.
It was caused by him.
Chapter Two
They abandoned the Jeep where it was mired in the mud and proceeded on foot.
It seemed to take hours before they managed to climb their way up the steep, slick mountainside.
The wind swirled around them, carrying the rain in sheets that were nearly horizontal. Angeline felt grateful for Brody’s big body standing so closely to hers, blocking a fair measure of the storm.
She lost all sense of time as they trudged along. Every step she took was an exercise in pain—her thighs, her calves, her shins. No part of her seemed excused until finally—when her brain had simply shut down except for the mental order to keep moving, keep moving, keep moving—Brody stopped.
He lifted his hand, and beat it hard on the wide black plank that barred their path.
A door, her numb mind realized. “They won’t hear,” she said, but couldn’t even hear the words herself over the screaming wind.
His fingers were an iron ring around her wrist as the door creaked open—giving lie to her words—and he pulled her inside. Then he put his shoulder against the door and muscled it closed again, yanking down the old-fashioned wooden beam that served as a lock.
The sudden cessation of battering wind was nearly dizzying.
It was also oddly quiet, she realized. So much so that she could hear the water dripping off her onto the stone floor.
“Señora.” A diminutive woman dressed in a full nun’s habit held out a white towel.
“Thank you.” Angeline took the towel and pressed it to her face. The weave was rough and thin but it was dry and felt positively wonderful. She lowered it to smile at the nun. “Gracias.”
The woman was speaking rapidly to Brody in Spanish. And though Angeline hadn’t spoken the language of her birth in years, she followed along easily enough. The nun was telling Brody that the Mother Superior was not there to welcome the strangers.
“We’re not strangers,” Brody told her. His accent was nearly flawless, Angeline realized with some vague surprise. “We’ve come to collect our children.”
If Angeline had held any vague notions of other children being at the convent, they were dissolved when the nun nodded. “Sí. Sí.” The nun turned and began moving away from the door, heading down the middle of the three corridors that led off the vestibule.
Brody gave Angeline a sharp look when she didn’t immediately follow along.
She knew she could collapse later, after they knew the children were safe. But just then she wanted nothing more than to just sink down on the dark stone floor and rest her head back against the rough, whitewashed wall.
As if he could read her thoughts, Brody wrapped his hand around her wrist again and drew her along the corridor with him in the nun’s wake.
Like the vestibule, the hallway had whitewashed walls. Though the wash looked pristine, it didn’t mask the rough texture of the wall beneath it. There were no windows, but a multitude of iron sconces situated high up the wall held fat white candles that kept the way well lit. The few electrical sconces spread out less liberally were dark.
Angeline figured they’d walked a good fifty feet before the corridor turned sharply left and opened after another twenty or so feet into a wide, square room occupied by a half-dozen long wooden tables and benches.
The dining hall, the nun informed them briskly. Her feet didn’t hesitate, however, as she kept right on walking.
“You catching all that?” Brody asked Angeline in English.
She nodded. She’d come to English only when Daniel and Maggie Clay had adopted her after her family’s village was destroyed. And though Angeline had deliberately turned her back on the language of her natural parents, she’d never forgotten it, though she’d once made a valiant effort to do so.
She’d already been different enough from the other people in that small Wyoming town where she’d gone to live with Daniel and Maggie. Even before she’d been old enough to understand her actions, she’d deliberately rid the accent from her diction, and copied the vague drawl that the adults around her had possessed. She’d wanted so badly to belong. Not because any one of her adopted family made her feel different, but because inside, Angeline had known she was different.
She’d lived when the rest of her natural family had perished. She’d been rescued from a poor Central American orphanage and been taken to the U.S., where she’d been raised by loving people.
But she’d never forgotten the sight of fire racing through the fields her cousins had tended, licking up the walls and across the roofs of their simple houses. And whatever hadn’t been burned had been hacked down with axes, torn apart with knives, shot down with guns.
Nothing had escaped. Not the people. Not the livestock. Not the land.
Only her.
It was twenty-five years ago, and she still didn’t understand why she’d been spared.
“Sophia.” Brody’s voice was sharp, cutting through the dark memories. Angeline focused on his deep blue eyes and just that abruptly she was back in the present.
Where two children needed them.
“I’m sorry.” How easily she fell back into thinking in Spanish, speaking in Spanish. “The children,” she looked at the nun. “Please, where are they?”
The nun looked distressed. “They are well and safe, señora. But until the Mother Superior returns and authorizes your access to them, I must continue to keep them secure.”
“From me?” Angeline didn’t have to work hard at conjuring tears in her eyes. She was cold, exhausted and entirely undone by the plot that Brody had drawn her into. “I am their mother.” The lie came more easily than she’d thought it would.
The nun’s ageless face looked pitying, yet resolute. “You were the ones who made the arrangement with Mother. But now, you are weary,” she said. “You and your husband need food and rest. We will naturally provide you with both until Mother returns. The storm will pass and soon she will be here to show you to your children.”
“But—”
Brody’s hand closed around hers. “Gracias, Sister. My wife and I thank you for your hospitality, of course. If we could find dry clothes—”
“Sí. Sí.” The nun looked relieved. “Please wait here. I will send Sister Frances to assist you in a moment if that will be satisfactory?”
Brody’s fingers squeezed Angeline’s in warning “Sí.”
She nodded and turned on her heel, gliding back along the corridor. Her long robes swished over the stone floor.
The moment she was out of sight, Brody let go of Angeline’s wrist and she sank down onto one of the long wooden benches situated alongside the tables. She rubbed her wrist, flushing a little when she realized he was watching the action. She stopped, telling herself inwardly that her skin wasn’t really tingling.
What was one more lie there inside that sacred convent, considering the whoppers they were already telling?
Brody sat down beside her and she wanted to put some distance between them given the way he was crowding into her personal space, but another nun—presumably Sister Frances—silently entered the dining area. She gestured for Brody and Angeline to follow, and Brody tucked his hand beneath Angeline’s arm as he helped her solicitously to her feet.
They followed the silent nun down another corridor and up several narrow flights of stairs, all lit with those same iron wall sconces. Finally she stopped and opened a heavy wooden door, extending her hand in a welcoming gesture. Clearly they were meant to go inside.
Angeline passed the nun, thanking her quietly as she entered the room. Brody ducked his head to keep from knocking it against the low sill and followed her inside. The dim room contained a single woefully narrow bed, a single straight-backed wooden chair and a dresser with an old-fashioned ceramic pitcher and basin atop it.
The nun reached up to the sconce on the wall outside the door and pulled down the lit candle, handing it to Brody. She waved her hand toward the two sconces inside the bedroom, and Brody reached up, setting the flame to the candles they contained.
Warm light slowly filled the tiny room as the flames caught. Brody handed the feeder candle back to the nun, who nodded and backed two steps out of the room, pulling the wooden door shut as she went.
Which left Angeline alone with Brody.
The room had no windows, and though Angeline was definitely no fan of small, enclosed spaces, the room simply felt cozy. Cozy and surprisingly safe, considering the surreal situation.
“Well,” he said in a low tone, “that was easier than I expected.”
She gaped. “Easy? They won’t even let us see the children.”
“Shh.” He lifted one of the candles from its sconce and began prowling around the room’s small confines.
She lowered her voice. “What are you looking for?”
He ignored her. He nudged the bed away from the wall. Looked behind it. Under it. Pushed it back. He did the same with the dresser. He turned the washbasin and the pitcher upside down, before replacing them atop the dresser. He even pulled the unlit bare lightbulb out of the metal fixture hanging from the low ceiling. Then, evidently with nothing else to examine, he returned the fat candle to the sconce.
“Don’t think we’re being bugged.”
Her lips parted. “Seriously?”
“I’m a big believer in paranoia.” He looked up at the steady candle flames. “Walls in this place must be about a foot deep,” he said. “Can hardly hear the storm out there.”
And she was closed within them with him in a room roughly the size of the balcony of her Atlanta apartment. “Sorry if I’m not quick on the uptake here. Is that supposed to be good or bad?”
He shrugged, and began pulling off his rain poncho, doing a decent job of not flinging mud onto the white blanket covering the bed. “It ain’t bad,” he said when his head reappeared. “At least we probably don’t have to worry about that hurricane blowing this place to bits.” He dropped the poncho in the corner behind the door. The Rolling Stones T-shirt he wore beneath it was as lamentably wet as her own, and he lifted the hem, pulling the gun and its holster off his waistband.
He tucked them both beneath the mattress.
“Probably,” she repeated faintly. “Bro—Hewitt, what about the children?”
“We’ll get to them,” he said.
She wished she felt even a portion of the confidence he seemed to feel. “What happened to that all-fire rush you were feeling earlier?”
“Believe me, it’s still burning. But first things first.” His long arm came up, his hand brushing her poncho and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Relax. I was just gonna help you take off your poncho.”
She felt her cheeks heat and was grateful for the soft candlelight that would hide her flush. “I knew that.”
He snorted softly.
Fortunately, she was saved from further embarrassment when there was a soft knock on the door.
It only took Brody two steps to reach it, and when it swung open, yet another nun stood on the threshold carrying a wooden tray. She smiled faintly and tilted her head, her black veil swishing softly. But like the sister who’d shown them to the room, she remained silent as she set the tray on the dresser top and began unloading it.
A simple woven basket of bread. A hunk of cheese. A cluster of green grapes. Two thick white plates, a knife, two sparkling clear glasses and a fat round pitcher. All of it she left on the dresser top. She didn’t look at Brody and Angeline as she bowed her head over the repast.
She was obviously giving a blessing. Then she lifted her head, smiled peacefully again and returned to the door. She knelt down, picked up a bundle she’d left outside, and brought it in, setting it on the bed. Then she let herself out of the room. Like Sister Frances, she pulled the door shut as she went.
“Grub and fresh duds,” Brody said, looking happy as a pig in clover. He lifted the off-white bundle from the bed and the items separated as he gave it a little shake. “Pants and top for you. Pants and top for me.” He deftly sorted, and tossed the smaller set toward the two thin pillows that sat at the head of the modest bed.
She didn’t reach for them, though.
He angled her a look. “Don’t worry, beautiful. I’ll turn my back while you change.” His lips twitched. “There’s not even a mirror in here for me to take a surreptitious peek. Now if you feel so compelled, you’re welcome to look all you want. After all,” his amused voice was dry, “we are married.”
Her cheeks heated even more. “Stop. Please. My sides are splitting because you are sooo funny.”
His lips twitched again and he pulled his T-shirt over his head.
Angeline swallowed, not looking away quickly enough to miss the ripped abdomen and wealth of satin-smooth golden skin stretched tightly across a chest that hadn’t looked nearly so wide in the shirt he’d worn. When his hands dropped to the waist of his jeans, she snatched up the clean, dry clothing and turned her back on him.
Then just when she wished the ground would swallow her whole, she heard his soft, rumbling chuckle.
She told herself to get a grip. She was a paramedic for pity’s sake. She’d seen nude men, women and children in all manner of situations.
There’s a difference between nude and naked, a tiny voice inside her head taunted, and Brody’s bare chest was all about being naked.
She silenced the voice and snatched her shirt off over her head, dropping it in a sopping heap on the floor. Leaving on her wet bra would only make the dry top damp, so she snapped it off, too, imaging herself anywhere but in that confining room with Brody Paine. She pulled the dry top over her head.
She tried imagining that she was a quick-change artist as she yanked the tunic firmly over her hips—grateful that it reached her thighs—then ditched her own wet jeans and panties for the dry pants.
She immediately felt warmer.
She knelt down and bundled her filthy clothes together, tucking away the scraps of lace and satin lingerie inside.
“Trying to hide the evidence that you like racy undies?”
Her head whipped around and the towel tumbled off her head.
Brody was facing her, hip propped against the dresser, arms crossed over the front of the tunic that strained slightly in the shoulders. He had an unholy look in his eyes that ought to have had the storm centering all of her fury on them considering their surroundings.
“You promised not to look.”
His mobile lips stretched, revealing the edge of his very straight, very white teeth. “Babe, you sound prim enough to be one of the sisters cloistered here.”
Her cheeks couldn’t possibly get any hotter. “Which doesn’t change the fact that you promised.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Promises are made to be broken.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“How do you know?”
It couldn’t possibly be anymore obvious. “It doesn’t matter how many lines you give me, because the truth is, you couldn’t do the work you do if you didn’t believe in keeping your word,” she said simply.
Chapter Three
Brody looked at Angeline’s face. She looked so… earnest, he thought. Earnest and sexy as hell in a way that had nothing to do with those hanks of black lace he’d gotten a glimpse of.
She’d always been a deadly combination, even in the small doses of time they’d ever spent together.
Was it any wonder that he’d been just as interested in consuming a larger dose as he’d been in avoiding just that?
Complications on the job were one thing.
Complications off the job were nonexistent because that’s the way he kept it.
Always.
But there she was, watching him with those huge, wide-set brown eyes that had gotten to him even on their first, ridiculously brief encounter five years earlier.
He deliberately lifted one eyebrow. “It’s a job, sweet cheeks. A pretty well-paying one.”
“Assembling widgets is a job,” she countered. “Protecting the innocent? Righting wrongs? That’s not just a job and somehow I doubt you do it only for the money.”
“You’re not just prim, you’re a romantic, too,” he drawled.
She frowned a little, possibly realizing the topic had gone somewhat awry. “So what’s the next step?”
He held up a cluster of grapes. “We eat.”
Right on cue, her stomach growled loud enough for him to hear. “Shouldn’t we try to find the children?”
“You wanna pull off our own kidnapping?” He wasn’t teasing.
“That’s essentially what your plan was.”
“I’d consider it more a case of protective custody.”
She pushed her fingers through her hair, holding it back from her face. She didn’t have on a lick of makeup, and she was still more beautiful than ninety-nine percent of the world’s female population.
“Fine. Call it whatever,” she dismissed. “Shouldn’t we be doing something to that end?”
“I told you. First things first. How far do you think we’ll get if we set out right this second? You’re so exhausted I can see the circles under your eyes even in this light and I’m not sure who’s stomach is growling louder. Yours or mine.” He popped a few grapes into his mouth and held up the cluster again. “Come on, darlin’. Eat up.”
“I think we should at least try to see the children. What if that password thing doesn’t work?” But she plucked a few grapes off the cluster and slid one between her full bow-shaped lips. She chewed and swallowed, and avoiding his eyes, quickly reached for more.
“It will.” He tore off a chunk of the bread and handed it to her, and cut the wedge of cheese in half. “Here.”
She sat on the foot of the bed and looked as if she was trying not to wolf down the food. He tipped the pitcher over one of the glasses, filling it with pale golden liquid. He took a sniff. “Wine.” He took a drink. “Pretty decent wine at that.” He poured the second glass and held it out to her.
She took it from him, evidently too thirsty to spend a lot of effort avoiding brushing his fingers the way she usually did. “Wine always goes straight to my head.”
“Goody goody.” He tossed one of the cloth napkins that had been tucked beneath the bread basket onto her lap. “Drink faster.”
She let out an impatient laugh. “Do you ever stop with the come-ons?”
“Do you ever take me up on one?”
She made a face at him. “Why would I want to be just another notch?”
“Who says that’s what you’d be?”
She took another sip of wine. “I’m sure that’s the only thing women are to you.”
“I’m wounded, babe. You’re different than all the others.”
She let out a half laugh. “You are so full of it.”
“And you are way too serious.” He bit into a hunk of bread. He was thirty-eight years old—damn near a decade her senior—but he might as well have been sixteen given the way he kept getting preoccupied with that narrow bed where she was gingerly perched.
“I’m a serious person,” she said around a not-entirely delicate mouthful of bread. “In a serious business.”
“The paramedic business or the spy business?”
“I’m not a spy.”
He couldn’t help smiling again. “Sugar, you’re a courier for one of the biggies in the business.” He tipped more wine into his glass. “And your family just keeps getting pulled in, one way or the other.”
“You ought to know. You’re the one who approached me in the first place to be a courier.”
He couldn’t dispute that. “Still. Don’t you think it’s a little…unusual?”
She didn’t even blink. “You mean how many of us are involved with Hollins-Winword?”
At least she wasn’t as in the dark as her cousin Sarah had been. Sarah’d had no clue that she wasn’t the only one in her family hooked up with Hollins-Winword; probably wouldn’t know even now if her brand-spanking-new husband, Max Scalise, hadn’t tramped one of his own investigations right through Brody’s assignment to protect a little girl named Megan. They’d been staying in a safe house in Weaver, set up by Sarah, who mostly made her living as a school teacher when she wasn’t making an occasional “arrangement” for Hollins-Winword. But she’d only learned that her uncles were involved. She hadn’t learned about Angeline.
Or the others in that extensive family tree.
And now, he’d heard that Sarah and Max were in the process of adopting Megan.
The child’s parents had been brutally murdered, but she’d at least have some chance at regaining a decent life with decent people raising her.
She’d have a family.
The thought was darker than it should have been and he reached for the wine pitcher again, only to find it empty. Thirty-eight years old, horny, thirsty and feeling envious of some innocent, eight-year-old kid.
What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been several years older than Megan had been when his real family had been blown to bits. As for the “family” he’d had after that, he’d hardly term a hard-assed workaholic like Cole as real.
Sitting across from him on the foot of the bed, Angeline had spread out the napkin over her lap, and as he watched, she delicately brushed her fingertips over the cloth.
She had the kind of hourglass figure that men fantasized over, a Madonna’s face and fingers that looked like they should have nothing more strenuous to do than hold up beautifully jeweled rings. Yet twice now, he’d found her toiling away in the ass-backwards village of Puerto Grande.
That first time, five years ago, his usual courier had missed the meet and Brody had been encouraged to develop a new asset. And oh, by the way, isn’t it convenient that there’s a pretty American in Puerto Grande whose family is already involved with Hollins-Winword.
The situation had always struck Brody as too convenient for words. But he’d gone ahead and done his job. He’d talked her into the gig, passed off the intel that she was to relay later when she was back in the States and voilà, her career as a courier was born.
The second time he’d found her working like a dog in Puerto Grande had been, of course, just that morning. He’d called in to his handler at Hollins-Winword to find out who he could pull in fast to assist him on getting the kids, only to learn that, lo and behold, once again the lovely Señorita Clay was right there in Puerto Grande. She would be the closest, quickest—albeit unlikely—assistant. And one he’d had to think hard and fast whether he wanted joining him or not. Desperate measures, though, had him going for it.
Not that it had been easy to convince her to join him. As she’d said, she wasn’t a field agent. Not even close. Her experience in such matters was nil. And she had her commitment to All-Med to honor. The small medical team was administering vaccinations and treating various ailments of the villagers around Puerto Grande.
He’d had to promise that another volunteer would arrive shortly to replace her before she’d made one single move toward his Jeep.
She was definitely a woman of contrasts.
When she wasn’t pulling some humanitarian aid stint, she worked the streets of Atlanta as a paramedic, yet usually talked longingly of the place she’d grown up in: Wyoming.
And there wasn’t a single ring—jeweled or otherwise—on those long, elegant fingers, except the wedding band that had been his mother’s.
Usually, he kept it tucked in his wallet. As a reminder never to get too complacent with life. Too comfortable. Too settled.
Considering how settled he’d been becoming lately, maybe it was a timely reminder.
“Do you remember much of Santo Marguerite?”
Her lashes lifted as she gave him a startled look. Just as quickly, those lush lashes lowered again. She lifted one shoulder and the crisp fabric of the tunic slipped a few inches, giving him a better view of the hollow at the base of that long, lovely throat.
“I remember it a little.” She pleated the edge of the napkin on her lap then leaned forward to retrieve the wineglass that she’d set on the floor. “What do you even know about the place? It no longer exists.”
She had a point. What he knew he’d learned from her file at Hollins-Winword. The dwellings of the village that had been destroyed were never rebuilt, though Sandoval had been in control of the land for the last few decades, guarding it with the violent zealousness he was known for.
She evidently took his silence as his answer. “Where did you grow up?” she asked.
“Here and there.” He straightened from his perch and stretched. Talking about her past was one thing. His was off-limits. Even he tried not to think about it. “You figure that bed’s strong enough to hold us both?”
Her eyes widened a fraction before she looked away again. “I…I’m used to roughing it in camps and such. I can sleep on the floor.”
“Hardly sounds like a wifely thing to do.”
She scrunched up the napkin and slid off the bed. “I’m not a wife.”
“Shh.” There was something wrong with the way he took such pleasure in seeing the dusky color climb into that satin-smooth complexion of hers.
Her lips firmed. “You’ve already established that these walls don’t have ears.”
“So I did. Kind of a pity, really. I was looking forward to seeing how well we played mister and missus for the night.”
Giving him a frozen look, she polished off the rest of her wine. Then she just stood there, staring at the blank wall ahead of her.
In the candlelight, her hair looked dark as ink against the pale cloth of her tunic, though he knew in the sunlight, those long gleaming locks were not really black at all, but a deep, lustrous brown.
“Whatcha thinking?”
She didn’t look back at him. She folded her arms over her chest. Her fingertips curled around her upper arms and he saw the wink of candlelight catching in the gold wedding band. “I wonder why they don’t have windows here.”
“Considering the way the weather was blowing out there, that’s probably a blessing about now.” He watched her back for a moment. The tunic reached well below her hips, and though he’d always had the impression of her being very tall, he knew that it was merely the way she carried herself. Not that she was short, but he had her by a good seven or eight inches. And there, in that tunic and pants, her feet bare, she seemed much less Wonder Woman than usual.
Vulnerable. That was the word.
She looked vulnerable.
It wasn’t necessarily a comfortable realization.
“You claustrophobic?”
She stiffened and shot him a suspicious look. “Why?”
“Just curious.” Though the walls in the room were probably going to feel mighty closed in the longer they were confined together with that single, narrow bed.
Her hands rubbed up and down her arms. “The electricity here would be from a generator, wouldn’t it?”
“I’d think so, though that doesn’t explain why it’s not running. Maybe they’ve got concerns with the gas it would take. Why? You cold?”
“Some. You, um, you suppose there’s plumbing here?”
He hid a smile. The convent was cloistered, and located in a highly remote location. But it wasn’t entirely out of the middle ages. “This is built like a dorm,” he said. “I saw the bathroom a floor down.”
She dropped her arms, casting him a relieved look. “You did?”
“Probably better facilities here than you had in that hut at Puerto Grande.” He reached for the door. “After you, my darling wife.”
When they got to the bathroom door, Brody stopped. “Place is built for women,” he reminded her. “You’d better go first. Make sure I don’t send some poor nun into heart failure.”
“I won’t be long.” She ducked inside.
In his experience, women were forever finding reasons to spend extra time in the bathroom. Lord only knew what they did in there.
But she did open the door again, almost immediately. “All clear.” She slipped past him back into the corridor and he went inside.
The halls were still silent when they made their way back up the narrow staircase and to the room. They passed a half-dozen other doors as they went. All closed.
“Where do you suppose the children are?”
He wished that he had a good answer. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“I don’t understand why you’re still feeling so awfully patient, considering your hurry to get up here.”
“Honey, I’m not patient. But I am practical.”
She stopped. “What’s so practical about getting all the way here, with no means of getting back out of here?”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He caught a glimpse of swishing black fabric from the corner of his eye.
“Bro—”
He pulled Angeline to him and planted his mouth over hers, cutting off his name.
She gave out a shocked squeak and went ramrod stiff. Her hands found their way to his chest, pushing, and he closed his hands around hers, squeezing them in warning.
She went suddenly soft, and instead of fighting him, she kissed him back.
It took more than a little effort for him to remember the kiss was only for the benefit of the nun, and damned if he didn’t feel a few bubbles off center when he managed to drag his mouth from those delectably soft lips and give the sister—Sister Frances, in fact—an embarrassed, Hewitt-type apology.
She tilted her head slightly. “The sacrament of marriage is a blessing, señor. There is no need for apology.” Her smile took in them both. “You will be comfortable for the night? Is there anything else we can provide for you?”
He kept his hands around Angeline’s. “A visit with our children would be nice.”
“I’m sorry. The Reverend Mother must return first.”
Angeline tugged her hands out of his. “We understand, Sister. But won’t you tell them that we’re here for them? That we’ll be going home just as soon as we can?”
“Of course, señora. They will be delighted.” She gave them a kind look. “Rest well. The storm will hopefully have passed by morning and Mother will be able to return.” She headed down the hall toward the staircase.
Brody tugged Angeline back into their room and closed the door.
The second he did, she turned on him. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Do what?”
Her lips parted. She practically sputtered before any actual words came out. “Kiss me.”
He slid his hand over her shoulder and lowered his head. “Whatever you say, honey.”
She shoved at him, and he stepped back, chuckling. “Relax, Sophia. We have the nun’s blessing, remember?”
“Very funny.” She put as much distance between them as the small room afforded. “I’m not going to have to remind you that no means no, am I?”
He started to laugh, but realized that she was serious. “Lighten up. If I ever get serious about getting you in the sack, you’ll know.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Usually,” he agreed. He yanked back the cover on the bed, and saw the way she tensed. “And you’re acting like some vestal virgin. Relax. You might be the stuff of countless dreams, but I do have some control.”
Her cheeks weren’t just dusky rose now. They were positively red. And her snapping gaze wouldn’t meet his as she leaned past him and snatched one of the thin pillows off the mattress. “If you were a gentleman, you’d take the floor.”
“Babe, I’ll be the first one to tell you that I am not a gentleman.”
“Fine.” She tossed the pillow on the floor, and gathered up the top cover from the bed. She flipped it out on the slate by the pillow, and sat down on one edge, drawing the other side over her as she lay down, back toward him.
“You’re really going to sleep on the floor.”
She twitched the cover up over her shoulder. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or applaud. “If I needed a shower despite the one that Mother Nature gave us that badly, you could have just told me.”
She didn’t respond.
He looked at the bed. A thin beige blanket covered the mattress. The remaining pillow looked even thinner and more Spartan now that its mate was tucked between Angeline’s dark head and the cold hard floor.
Brody muttered a mild oath—they were in a convent, after all, and even he didn’t believe in taunting fate quite that much—and grabbed the pillow and blanket from the bed and tossed them down on the ground.
She twisted her head around. “What are you doing now?”
“Evidently being shamed into sleeping on this godforsa—blessed floor.” He flipped out the blanket and lowered himself onto it. Sad to say, but nearly every muscle inside him protested the motion. He was in pretty decent shape, but climbing the mountain hadn’t exactly been a picnic.
“You don’t have any shame,” she countered.
He made a point of turning his back on her as he lay down, scrunching the pillow beneath his head. The area of floor was significantly narrow, but not so narrow that he couldn’t have kept his back from touching hers if he’d so chosen.
He didn’t choose.
So much for trying to convince the higher powers that he was entirely decent.
She shifted ever so subtly away from him, until he couldn’t feel the warmth of her lithe form against him. He rolled onto his back, closing the gap again.
She huffed a little, then sat up and pushed at him to move over. When he didn’t, she scrambled to her feet and stepped over him, reaching back for her bedding.
“Where are you going?” He rolled back onto his side and propped his head on his hand, watching her interestedly.
“Away from you,” she assured. She flung the cover around her shoulders like an oversized shawl and climbed onto the bed. “When lightning strikes you down, I don’t want to be anywhere near.”
Brody smiled faintly. “That’s good, because I was beginning to think you were afraid of sleeping with little ol’ me.”
She huffed. “Please. There is nothing little about you.”
“Babe. I’m flattered.”
She gave him a baleful look that made him want to smile even more. “You know they say the larger the ego, the smaller the, um—”
“Id?” he supplied innocently.
She huffed again and threw herself down on the pillow. “Blow out the candles.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He got up and did so, turning the small, cozily lit room into one that was dark as pitch.
She was silent. So silent he couldn’t even hear her breathe.
“You all right?”
“It’s really dark.”
He wondered how hard it had been for Angeline to admit that. She damn sure wouldn’t appreciate him noticing the hint of vulnerability in her smooth, cool voice.
Two steps to his right and he reached the dresser. The small tin of matches was next to the pitcher and bowl and he found that easily, too. A scrape of the match against the wall, a spit of a spark, the flare of sulfur, and the tiny flame seemed to light up the place again. “I can leave one of the candles lit.”
“You said you weren’t a gentleman.”
He set the flame to one of the candles and shook out the match. “I’m not,” he assured.
“Then stop acting like one, because now I have to give you room on this bed, too.” She moved on the mattress, and the iron frame squeaked softly. She groaned and covered her face with her hand.
He laughed softly. “It’s just a few squeaky springs. I doubt any of the good sisters are holding glasses against these thick walls hoping for a listen. You act like you’ve never shared a bed with a guy before.”
She didn’t move. Not just that she was still, but that she really didn’t move.
And for a guy who’d generally considered himself quick on the uptake, he realized that this time he’d been mighty damn slow. “Ah. I…see.” Though he didn’t. Not really. She was twenty-nine years old. How did a woman—a woman who looked like her, yet, with her intelligence, her caring, her…everything—how the hell did she get to be that age and never sleep with a guy?
“Why are you still—why haven’t you ever—oh, hell.” Disgruntled more at himself than at her, he scraped his hand down his face. “Forget it. It’s none of my business.”
“No,” she agreed. “It’s not. Now, are you going to sleep on the bed or not?”
He snatched up the pillow from the floor and tossed it beside her.
She’s a virgin. The thought—more like a taunt—kept circling inside his head. Probably what he got for catching a glimpse of that sexy underwear of hers when he’d promised not to look.
He lay down next to her, and the iron bed gave a raucous groan.
“Not one word,” she whispered fiercely.
That worked just fine for him.
Chapter Four
Angeline didn’t expect to sleep well.
She knew she’d sleep, simply because she’d learned long ago to sleep when the opportunity presented itself. And even though Brody’s long body was lying next to hers, his weight indenting the mattress just enough that the only way she could keep from rolling toward him was to hang on to the opposite edge of the mattress, she figured she would still manage to catch some z’s.
What she didn’t expect, however, was to sleep soundly enough, deeply enough, to miss Brody leaving the bed.
Or to find that someone had filled the pitcher on the dresser and laid out a freshly folded hand towel on the dresser top.
Okay. So she’d really slept soundly.
Not so unusual, she reasoned, as she dashed chilly water over her face and pressed the towel to her cheeks. Making that climb in the storm had been exhausting.
Or maybe you’re more comfortable with Brody than you’d like to admit.
She turned and went out of the room, leaving that annoying voice behind.
As before, the corridor was empty, still lit by candles in the sconces. She went down the stairs, visited the long, vaguely industrial-like restroom and then went searching.
But when she reached the ground floor without encountering the impossible-to-miss dining hall, she knew she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way.
Annoyed with herself, she turned on her heel, intending to head back and make another pass at it, but a muffled sound stopped her in her tracks.
Footsteps?
Nervousness charged through her veins and she tried to shake it off. She was in a convent, for pity’s sake. What harm could come to them there?
Even if the nuns realized the identity fraud they were perpetrating, what would they be likely to do about it, other than call the authorities, or kick them out into the storm? It wasn’t as if they’d put them in chains in a dungeon.
Nevertheless, Angeline still looked around warily, trying to get her bearings. She went over to the nearest window, but it was too far above her head. She couldn’t see out even when she tried to jump up and catch the narrow sill with her fingers. So she stood still, pressing a hand to her thumping heart, willing it to quiet as she listened for another sound, another brush of feet, a swish of long black robes.
But all she heard now was silence. She was listening so hard that when melodious bells began chiming, she very nearly jumped out of her skin.
She leaned back against the roughly textured wall and waited for the chiming to end.
“If you’re praying, there’s a chapel within spitting distance.”
Her heart seemed to seize up for the eternal moment it took to recognize the deep, male voice.
She opened her eyes and looked at Brody. She came from a family of tall, generally oversized men, much like Brody. And she was used to the odd quietness with which most of them moved. But Brody seemed to take that particular skill to an entirely new level. “It’s a good thing my heart is healthy,” she told him tartly, “because you could give a person a heart attack the way you sneak around!”
“Who needs to sneak?”
“Evidently you do,” she returned in the same quiet whisper he was using.
Despite the wrinkles in his gender-neutral tunic and pants, he looked revoltingly fresh, particularly compared to the rode-hard-and-put-up-wet way that she felt.
“Did you know you pretty much sleep like the dead?”
She wasn’t going to argue the point with him when ordinarily, as a result of her paramedic training, she was quite a light sleeper. “What are you doing sneaking around? Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s almost 3:00 a.m. And what are you doing sneaking around? I’ve been trying to find you for ten minutes.”
“I needed the restroom,” she whispered. A portion of the truth at least.
He cocked his head. “You got your boots on. Good.” He closed his long fingers around her wrist and started walking along the hallway, sticking his head through doorways as he went. “While you were dreaming of handsome princes, I was scoping out this place. Hard to believe, but the fine sisters have an interesting collection of vehicles.”
Her stomach clenched. “You’ll ask to borrow one?”
Despite the dim lighting, she could tell that his expression didn’t change one iota.
She swallowed a groan. “We can’t steal one of their cars,” she said under her breath.
“Babe.” He sounded wounded. “Steal is a harsh word.” He stopped short and she nearly bumped into him. “I like borrow better.”
“That only works when you intend to ask permission to do so,” she pointed out the obvious.
“Details. You’re always getting hung up on details.” He reached up and plucked a candle out of one of the sconces, then pulled open the door beside him and nudged her through. “I wanna move fast, but we’ve gotta stay quiet. Think you can manage that?”
Her lips parted. “Yes, I can be quiet,” she assured, a little more loudly than she ought.
He raised his eyebrows and she pressed her lips together, miming the turning of a key next to them.
His lips quirked. “Good girl.”
The spurt of nervousness she’d felt before was nothing compared to the way she felt now as Brody drew her through the doorway. He stopped long enough to hold the door as it closed without a sound.
After tramping down a warren of alarmingly narrow halls, the tile floor gave way to hard-packed dirt.
She swallowed again, feeling like they were heading down into the bowels of the mountain. “Did you sleep at all? How long did it take you to discover this rat maze? Do you even know where we’re going?”
He paused again, letting her catch up and the candle flame stopped the wild dance of light it cast on the walls. “Yeah, I slept enough. And yeah, I know where we’re going. Don’t you trust me? We’re going to get the kids and get the hell outta Dodge while the going’s good.”
“But what about your big first-things-first speech?”
“You slept some, didn’t you?” His voice was light. “And ate.”
She pressed her lips together, determined not to argue. “Your sudden rush just surprised me,” she finally managed stiffly.
“Well, along with their various vehicles,” he said in such a reasonable tone that she felt like smacking him, “the fine sisters here have a satellite phone system. Hardly the kind of thing one would expect, but hey. Maybe one of the local politicians figures he’s buying his way into heaven or something. Anyway, I checked with my handler. The Stanleys have been moved again. And despite the weather, the Mother Superior has found a guide to get her back to her flock. She’s supposed to be here shortly after sunup.”
“A guide,” Angeline echoed. Her irritation dissolved. “What kind of guide?”
“The kind who won’t let a washed-out road get in his way.”
“You don’t think it’s that Rico person who searched Sophia and Hewitt’s place?”
His gaze didn’t waver.
Dismay congealed inside her stomach. “This is a nightmare.”
“Nah. Could be worse. Way worse,” he assured.
She looked over her shoulder in the direction from which they’d come. What was worse? Going forward or going back? Either way, she really, really wanted to get out of this narrow, closed-in tunnel. She looked back at him only to encounter the look he was giving her—sharp eyed despite the gloom. “What?”
“You tell me. What’s bothering you?”
Aside from the entire situation? She moistened her lips. “I, um, I just don’t much care for tunnels.”
He held the candle above his head, looking up. Then he moved the candle to one side. And the other.
She knew what he was looking at. The ceiling overhead was stucco. The walls on either side of them were stuccoed, as well. And though the floor was dirt, it wasn’t as if it were the kind of dirt that had been on the road where the Jeep had gotten stuck. Her boots had encountered no ruts. It seemed perfectly smooth, perfectly compacted.
Not exactly a tunnel.
She knew that’s what Brody was thinking.
But “We’re almost there,” was all he said. “Think you can stand it for another couple minutes?”
Pride lifted her chin if nothing else would. This was part of St. Agnes, not a culvert running beneath the city of Atlanta. “Of course.”
He didn’t smile. Just gave a single nod and turned forward again.
His simple acceptance of her assurance went considerably further than if he’d taken her hand and drawn her along with him like some frightened child. She focused on watching him, rather than the confining space, as they continued their brisk pace.
As he’d promised, it was only a few minutes—if that—before she followed Brody around another corner, up several iron stairs and out into the dark, wet air. A vine-twined trellis overhead kept the drizzling rain from hitting them, though Angeline shivered as the air penetrated her clothes.
Thunder was a steady roll, punctuated by the brilliant flicker of lightning.
She got a quick impression of hedges and rows of plants. The convent’s garden? Surely there would have been an easier route to take.

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