Buch lesen: «Red Clover Inn»

One

The Cotswolds, England

Charlotte Bennett was no stranger to trouble but never had she encountered it in the form of a US federal agent who was exhausted, somewhat inebriated or both. “Agent Rawlings.” She paused, debating the wisdom of continuing. “Are you by any chance armed?”

“Armed with a smile.”

And smile he did, as if to prove his point. It was a casually sexy smile, his turquoise eyes crinkling at the corners. Charlotte didn’t know when and where a federal agent was supposed to carry a weapon, but certainly not while drinking beer at a party the night before her cousin’s wedding in a quiet village in England. She couldn’t see a weapon but he could easily have one under the jacket he wore over a charcoal-gray lightweight sweater. He had ultrashort-cropped dark auburn hair and looked as if he knew his way around weapons of all kinds.

“No worries, okay? I’m not in the UK on official business. You’re safe with me.”

He was amused. She could tell. She’d arrived at the party late and had chosen a small table by a window slightly open to the damp June evening. She’d had exactly two sips of her wine, a lovely, chilled white, when he sat next to her on the cushioned bench, placed his near-empty beer glass on the small table and introduced himself as Greg Rawlings. Charlotte had recognized his name as the federal agent Samantha, her cousin whose wedding was tomorrow, had mentioned was a last-minute guest.

Charlotte took her third sip of her wine. “You know, I didn’t invite you to join me.”

“You can kick me out if you want,” he said with a yawn. “I’ll go quietly.”

He didn’t look as if he did anything quietly unless it suited him. “Agent Rawlings—”

“Call me Greg. What’s your name?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Bennett.”

“Ah. Another Bennett. Live here or in the US?”

“I’m American but I live in Scotland.” For now, she added silently.

“Well, Lottie, you need to kick back and relax.”

He was having fun. Definitely. She wanted to have fun but she wasn’t in the mood, at least not yet. Once she saw Samantha and got into the spirit of the wedding festivities, maybe. But she didn’t like weddings.

“It’s Charlotte,” she said. “Don’t call me Lottie again.”

Greg Rawlings smiled, his eyes half-closed. “Or...what?”

He knew he was sexy. Totally knew it. She returned his smile. “I promised my family I wouldn’t get in a bar fight tonight.”

“You’ve been in bar fights, Char?”

“Not in a while. And Char isn’t going to work, either. Charlotte. That’s it.”

“As in Charlotte’s Web?”

“No. As in my parents liked the name.”

“Is Charlotte the spider? I don’t remember. I guess it makes sense she’d be the spider, or why would it be her web?”

Charlotte didn’t respond. She watched him fight back another yawn. Maybe he wasn’t inebriated—maybe he was just tired. He’d sat at her table without invitation, but there weren’t enough tables for the number of guests, deliberately so, she knew, because the idea behind the party was for guests to mingle ahead of tomorrow’s wedding. She’d assumed he’d had too much to drink and had picked an argument with him.

Maybe argument was too strong. She’d walked into the Cotswolds pub and found her way to the private-function room intensely aware she needed a distraction. She’d hoped a glass of white wine would do the trick. Then enter a fit, muscular federal agent with attitude.

Maybe he needed a distraction, too. Sparring with her certainly didn’t intimidate him or even seem to bother him. One of those guys who always thought he had the upper hand. She supposed it was a strength in a federal agent, if not necessarily in a drinking mate.

“What are you drinking?” he asked her.

“Chardonnay. What about you?” Charlotte nodded to his almost-drained pint glass. “What were you drinking?”

“Implying I’m done for the night?”

“You should be.”

He grinned. “You’re blunt.” He sat up straighter. “Okay. I was drinking Heineken, the last of which is in the bottom of my glass and warm. My buddy Brody is supposed to be fetching me another pint.”

“Brody being...”

“Brody Hancock. He’s the tall guy who isn’t bringing me my beer.”

Charlotte drew a blank but had a feeling she should know the name Brody Hancock. “Is Brody a federal agent, too?”

“He’s a London-based Diplomatic Security Service agent for the US State Department recently married to the only sister of tomorrow’s groom. You know about that, right? The wedding tomorrow? You’re not a gate-crasher, are you?”

“I know about the wedding. I’m not a gate-crasher.” More like the opposite, she thought. The one who ran from weddings. “Are you a DS agent, too?”

He frowned. “Didn’t I say that?”

“You acknowledged you were a federal agent when I recognized your name. I didn’t know what kind of federal agent. We didn’t get to the details once I realized you might be armed.” She had a feeling she was digging a deep, deep hole for herself. “Why don’t I find Agent Hancock for you?”

Greg sank against the back of the bench they shared. “That’s okay. He’ll find me.”

“I hope so,” she said half under her breath.

“You’re blunt, Charlotte. Relax. It’s the night before a quiet English wedding.”

As if that should reassure her. “Bad things often happen the night before weddings.”

“That’s a dark view,” he said, clearly amused. “Let’s start over. I will call you Charlotte and you will quit worrying about whether I’m armed and inebriated. Okay? Hitting the reset button...” He paused to shake off a yawn. “What do you do for a living, Charlotte?”

“I’m a marine archaeologist. I’m Samantha Bennett’s cousin.”

“Our bride-to-be. Blood relative, then?”

“She’s my second cousin, actually. Our grandfathers were brothers.”

“Both gone now?”

Charlotte nodded. “They died within eighteen months of each other, my grandfather Max first, then Harry. They were both predeceased by their wives. Harry was an explorer and adventurer. Max—well, Max wasn’t an explorer and adventurer. He managed Harry’s expeditions and such.”

“Younger brother?”

“By two years. They both lived into their nineties. They would be at the wedding if they were alive.” Charlotte picked up her wineglass, taking the opportunity to lower her gaze subtly to Greg’s middle. She still couldn’t see any evidence of a weapon. “The Bennetts will be well represented tomorrow.”

Greg leaned toward her. “I don’t mind you staring at me, but you can throttle back on the suspicions. I’m not going to shoot anyone and I’m not drunk.”

“The last words of countless drunks as they pass out under the table.”

He grinned, not the reaction she’d expected to her frank comment. “I knew I did right sitting next to you,” he said. “I saw you come in and decided you’re the prettiest, most uptight person here and needed cheering up.”

It was distraction she’d needed, not cheering up. “I only just arrived from Edinburgh.”

“Any idea why it’s pronounced Edinboro? Why isn’t burgh pronounced like it is in Pittsburgh?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead grabbing his glass and polishing off his last sip of beer. He made a face. “I let it get warm. That’s bad. I’m off my game. Where do you suppose my fresh pint is?”

“Still in the tap, I hope,” Charlotte said.

“Going to tell me why you’re so uptight? Did you run into trouble getting here from Edinburgh?”

“No trouble. It was a long train ride.” She’d constantly fought the urge to jump off her train and return to Edinburgh. But she hadn’t, and now she was here, going tit-for-tat with Greg Rawlings. “I’m relaxing with a glass of wine and going to bed early.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know how that’s your business.”

He shrugged. “It’s not. Just making friendly conversation. I’m staying here at the pub. My room’s right up the stairs. Brody and Heather—that’s his wife—are staying at the wedding hotel. She’s in the wedding party tomorrow. But you know that, right?”

Wedding party. Charlotte inhaled, pushing back a surge of panic. “I haven’t met Heather, but yes, I know who she is, and that she’s one of Samantha’s bridesmaids.”

“You’re not in the wedding yourself, are you?”

She didn’t answer at once. She scanned the private-function room but didn’t see anyone she knew. The party was winding down now, only a handful of guests at the dozen tables and standing around with drinks. Samantha had assured her it would be a simple, informal gathering of friends and family who’d arrived for the destination wedding from New England, Florida, Scotland and London. There was no actual rehearsal. It wasn’t critical that Charlotte arrive early, or at all, provided she was on time for the wedding preparations and service tomorrow. She’d texted Samantha from the Oxford train station to let her know she’d arrived. She’d sensed her cousin’s relief. Charlotte understood. She didn’t have a good track record when it came to weddings.

Samantha had already gone back to the wedding hotel for an early night by the time Charlotte had arrived at the party. She shifted back to the man next to her at her table. “I’m Samantha’s maid of honor,” she said, hoping she sounded relaxed, matter-of-fact.

“There you go. Being in the wedding explains why you’re so uptight.”

“Actually, no, it doesn’t, because I’m not uptight.”

“Nervous? Being in front of a crowd can make people nervous.”

“I’m not nervous or uptight. But never mind.”

He eyed her as if he was debating asking a follow-up question. “Samantha’s a pirate expert and treasure hunter,” he said instead. “I’m going to guess that you’re not.”

“Marine archaeologists are sometimes involved in exploring sunken pirate ships, but you are right, I’m not.” She used a tone that she hoped signaled she didn’t want to answer more questions about herself. “I’ll go find your friend.”

“Don’t bother. I see him. He’s chatting up one of the groom’s brothers. Am I starting to annoy you, Charlotte?”

“Let’s say initially I felt somewhat protective of you but now I don’t.”

“Protective of me?” Another wide, amused grin. “I like that.”

“Protective only in the sense that I don’t want you to do anything to get yourself in trouble with your superiors or to cause trouble for anyone else, especially Samantha, since it’s her wedding tomorrow.”

“And you? Are you being protective of yourself? You don’t want me to cause trouble for you, right?” He leaned back on the bench. “Or do you?”

“I assure you, Agent Rawlings, I can handle whatever trouble you have in mind for me.”

He gave her a slow, easy, impossibly sexy grin. “I’ll bet you can.”

“I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

“No comment.” He blinked, plainly having difficulty keeping his eyes open. “So. You haven’t told me to shove off, because you’re protecting me and your cousin but not yourself. Got it.”

Charlotte didn’t quibble. Greg Rawlings was muscular and broad-shouldered but he wasn’t what she would call handsome. Instead he had a magnetic, arresting appeal that worked well with her need for a distraction and probably was a factor in her not sending him on his way.

“You are pretty, you know,” he said, catching her off guard. “Your brown eyes remind me of a golden retriever I had as a kid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did I just say you have eyes like a dog? Damn, I did. He was a great dog, if that helps.”

“I love dogs,” Charlotte said, keeping her tone neutral.

“Me, too. And you do have pretty eyes.”

“Do you always dig holes this deep with people you’ve just met?”

“Usually deeper.”

She didn’t doubt him.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’ve dug a hole with you?” She smiled. “Ah, well.”

He laughed, looking less exhausted—and not at all drunk. “Fortunately, my job requires me to keep my mouth shut most of the time. Do you work with Samantha’s parents? Aren’t they exploring sunken U-boats off the coast of Scotland?”

“They were. That project ended recently. I did work with them, yes, on a contract basis.”

“Are you a diver?”

Charlotte hesitated only a fraction of a second. She doubted most people would have noticed her hesitation, but she could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that Greg Rawlings did. “I’m with the Institute of Maritime Archaeology based in Edinburgh,” she said, crisp, professional. “Diving is an important part of what I do.”

Greg shuddered. “Just the thought of diving gives me hives.”

“That’s your answer, then. If thinking about diving bothers you, then it’s the thinking that’s the issue, not the diving itself.”

“It’s the diving.”

She couldn’t resist a smile. She had to admit she was enjoying their banter. It was harmless, a little fun before she retired for the night. Maybe he’d sized her up right after all. “I’ve been diving since I was a kid,” she said. “I guess it never occurred to me to get hives over it. I’m fascinated by the world’s underwater heritage. There’s so much to explore and learn.”

“One of our last frontiers,” Greg said, obviously not that interested. “I guess space is another. I don’t like the thought of space suits, either. I like breathing real air.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him about the definition of real air. “It’s hard to believe Samantha ended up a couple of hours from the nearest salt water, but she loves her adopted town in Massachusetts. England is perfect for her wedding, though, since most of her family lives in the UK. She says it’s going to be beautiful tomorrow. Apparently the wisteria is in full bloom.”

“What’s wisteria?” Greg asked.

“It’s a flower.”

“Then it’s not contagious. Good.”

Charlotte sighed. “Very funny.” She started to rise. “Good to meet you, Agent Rawlings. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Greg placed a hand on her wrist, sending unexpected currents through her. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Have another glass of wine. You were here first. I’ll go find Brody. I remember when he got his first assignment. He was green as a grass snake. Now he’s in his prime, and I’m—Wait, where the hell are we?” He glanced around him, as if he were confused. “Some twee English village, right?”

Charlotte observed him. He was entertained, unconcerned—and deliberate, she decided. Diplomatic Security Agent Greg Rawlings might be exhausted and he might be trouble in many ways, but he wasn’t inebriated. He was stone-cold sober. Her initial impression of him had been part right and part wrong.

Mostly wrong.

She gave an inward groan, not so much embarrassed as annoyed with herself. But wasn’t being wrong about people par for the course for her these days?

Par for the course with her and men, she amended silently.

She did much better with the ghosts she found underwater.

“I have to unpack,” she said politely, firmly, as she stood. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

This time, Greg didn’t stop her, and she slipped out of the party room, down the hall and out to the bar. More family and friends had decided to stay overnight than expected, and Charlotte had offered to stay in one of the pub’s half-dozen guest rooms, freeing up space at the relatively small wedding hotel.

A room at the pub also allowed her to get her bearings before tomorrow.

Weddings.

She took a breath and sat on a stool at the bar. A quiet drink without any back-and-forth with a federal agent and then she’d collapse into bed. By daylight, she’d be ready to pour herself into her maid-of-honor dress. The long train ride from Edinburgh to Oxford and then a cab to the small English village where her cousin was getting married had left her drained. She’d had too much time to think. Inevitably, her mind had drifted to thoughts, questions and regrets best avoided on her way to a wedding.

“Scotch,” she said to the tawny-haired barman. “Smoky and expensive.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“We are celebrating that I’m here for my cousin’s wedding tomorrow, alone, single and in one piece.”

The barman poured a pricey single malt and set the glass in front of her. “Cheers, then.”

Charlotte held up her glass and smiled. “Cheers.”

* * *

Brody Hancock planted a fresh beer in front of Greg and sat across from him. “Do I need to go find that woman and apologize on your behalf?” Brody asked.

Greg picked up the beer. “That woman is Charlotte Bennett, Samantha’s cousin and her maid of honor.”

“Even more reason to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

“You tell me. I’m going to make an educated guess and say you were jerking her chain.”

“She started it by assuming I was drunk.”

Brody groaned. “That’s so third grade, Greg.”

“I know. It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“For you, maybe.”

Greg didn’t argue the point with his friend and colleague. Brody was a good-looking guy in his midthirties, dressed for the night in a suit, probably because it was his brother-in-law who was getting married tomorrow.

“You’re doing some assuming of your own,” Brody added. “You don’t know what Charlotte was thinking.”

“I do. She told me. She’s blunt. She threatened to disarm me.” It was an exaggeration and Greg knew it. “I swear.”

“How was she going to disarm you, Greg?” Brody asked, sighing.

“I don’t know. It could have been interesting to find out.”

Brody shook his head. “Don’t make me regret getting you invited to the wedding.”

“I won’t. Relax. That’s what I’m doing. Relaxing.”

“Sure, Greg.”

He realized his eyelids were drooping. Damn, he was beat. He’d been going all out for months. A wedding in the English countryside was just what he needed. “Charlotte’s uptight and was looking for a distraction,” he said, confident in his assessment. “Fretting about me gave her something to do. If anyone needs to apologize, it’s her.”

“Somehow I doubt she’s the one who needs to make apologies.”

“Charlotte Bennett can hold her own. Trust me. And it’s Charlotte, by the way, not Char or Lottie or anything else. Charlotte.”

“And you’re an ass,” Brody said with a grin.

“I do a good imitation of one, anyway.” Greg considered his encounter with tomorrow’s maid of honor. “She’s hiding something. I can tell these things.”

“You’re good, Greg, but even you aren’t a mind reader. Enjoy your beer. We don’t have to worry about getting in a car and driving on the wrong side on the winding country roads.”

Heather, Brody’s dark-haired, blue-eyed bride of a few months, joined them. She and Brody had grown up in the same town, an out-of-the-way little place west of Boston called Knights Bridge. Greg had been there over the winter and met a bunch of locals, including Heather’s five older brothers. They were all here for tomorrow’s wedding—especially Justin Sloan, since he was the groom. Being the youngest and only girl, Heather was another one who gave as good as she got. Brody had never intimidated her. Neither had the animosity between him and her older brothers that had gone back to their teen years. All water over the dam now. On Greg’s one and only visit to Knights Bridge, Brody had just returned to his hometown after more than a decade and he and Heather Sloan were doing the dance, wondering if they were meant for each other. But they were. Greg had seen it right away. Love for them had come fast and fairly easily, and he was certain it would last.

Heather set three glasses of water on the table. “Figured it’s time for us to switch to H2O,” she said cheerfully as she sat next to her husband.

Greg thanked her but stuck with his beer. “We haven’t had much chance to talk since I got in from parts unknown. How’s married life for you two lovebirds?”

“It’s perfect,” Heather said without hesitation.

Brody smiled. “Just what I was going to say.”

“We’re loving London,” she added. “Having my family here for the wedding is great. Helps with any homesickness.”

“You’re not down on the farm anymore,” Greg said.

“We have a construction business. My parents live in an old farmhouse, but it’s not a working farm.”

“It’s an expression, Heather.” Greg got a kick out of her. “I’m glad you two are happy. I said you would be, didn’t I?”

“You’re always right, Greg,” Heather said, then drank some of her water.

He laughed but he could feel the rawness of his exhaustion.

Brody lifted his water glass. “Are you going to pass out here, Greg? You look like you need toothpicks to keep your eyes open.”

“Here would be good but Samantha’s marine archaeologist cousin would probably sic the local cops on me.” He abandoned his beer barely two sips into it. “I’ll stumble up to my room.”

“Want me to spot you?” Brody asked.

“No.” Greg snorted as he got to his feet. “Spot me. Hell.”

He did stumble, though. Imperceptibly, he thought, but there was no denying it. He didn’t give a damn. He’d had a rough few months since crawling off his deathbed and going back to work.

How close was I to dying, Doc?

Close.

Seconds? Minutes? I want to tell my ex-wife.

His doctor hadn’t thought that was funny. Laura wouldn’t have, either, but Greg would never tell her. Divorced or not, he was the father of their two teenage children. She’d often grumbled that life as his wife was like being widowed, but she had never wanted him to die for real. Decent of her, considering she’d had a point. He’d left her high and dry too frequently during their marriage. They’d married young and had two kids right away, and they’d never been easy as a couple, not like Heather and Brody. Finally, they’d accepted they no longer were a couple and it was time to move on, end their marriage.

It hadn’t been Laura’s fault. It damn sure hadn’t been the kids’ fault.

They lived in Minnesota near Laura’s family and liked cold weather. Andrew and Megan had no idea what their father’s life was really like. They’d see a Diplomatic Security agent in a movie and think that was it. But it wasn’t.

Greg took the blame, every bit of it, for the distance between them, but he knew, at least intellectually, blame and guilt got him nowhere. He wasn’t going to let them be an excuse to keep his distance, prevent him from living the life he wanted to live.

He swore under his breath.

No way was he going to bed with all that rolling around in his head. A good night’s sleep would help, but it would elude him if he didn’t get a grip first. His demons were part of the reason for his admitted exhaustion.

He walked down the narrow hall to the bar, managing not to fall on his face. He spotted Charlotte Bennett at the bar and grinned at her when she fastened her dark eyes on him. She had creamy skin and thick, rich brown hair that hung in waves to just above her shoulders, and she wore a simple, close-fitting black dress and strappy black heels. Greg would bet a million dollars that her shoes were killing her feet, but she’d never show pain. Not the type.

He sat in a booth. It had a worn wood bench. No cushion. Aches that hadn’t bothered him in months gnawed at him now. It’d been four months since he’d defied his doctors’ predictions and had made a full recovery and returned to duty after being wounded in an ambush late last fall. He’d seen a similar determination in dark-eyed Charlotte, but maybe he’d only been projecting.

The pub had low ceilings and a large open fireplace, unlit given the warm evening. A votive candle glowed on his table. The place was owned by Ian Mabry, a former RAF pilot engaged to Alexandra Rankin Hunt, an English dress designer with a shop down the street and tangled connections to little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.

Greg ordered Scotch. “Whatever you recommend that doesn’t cost a fortune,” he told Mabry, a good-looking sandy-haired guy who didn’t seem to miss the RAF. Greg wondered if he’d miss his job when the time finally came to call it quits. He wanted that moment to be on his own terms, not a bullet’s terms. But he wasn’t contemplating his past or future this weekend, he decided. Especially not tonight, with Scotch on the way.

He settled back and observed tomorrow’s maid of honor. He didn’t know much about the Bennetts. Samantha’s grandfather, Harry Bennett, had earned an international reputation as an adventurer and explorer when he’d ventured to the Antarctic under dangerous conditions. He and some in his party had almost frozen to death. Greg gave an involuntary shiver. He figured he’d done well by not freezing to death in Minneapolis.

Laura, his ex, wouldn’t think that was funny, either.

No wonder they hadn’t been a “forever” match.

Greg focused on eyeing the curve of Charlotte Bennett’s hip under her sleek outfit.

“Do you wear dresses very often given your work as a diver?” he asked, not sure if she’d heard him. Her dagger look as she swiveled to him ended any doubt. He grinned. “No, huh? Did you have that one hanging in your closet or did you buy it special for tonight? Borrow it? Wait. Let me guess. You don’t have a closet.”

“I’m not indulging you.” She swiveled back to her drink, giving him her back again.

“That’s not apple juice you’re drinking, is it?”

No reaction. Greg decided to shut up before Ian Mabry tossed him out for being an ass. The pilot/barman delivered the Scotch himself, a smoky-but-not-too-smoky single malt from, according to Mabry, an Islay distillery.

“So it’s Eye-la not Iz-lay,” Greg said.

Mabry smiled. “I have a feeling you knew that.”

The Englishman withdrew before Greg told him yeah, he’d known. About a decade ago he’d mispronounced Islay in front of a UK-security type who’d relished trying to make him feel like a dumbass. It hadn’t worked, and they’d become friends, drinking expensive Scotch to nonexcess and deliberately mispronouncing one booze name after another.

Greg debated asking Charlotte to join him. Probably not a good idea.

One sip into his Scotch and his fatigue blanketed him, suffocating him. He should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t, instead distracting himself by teasing an obviously smart, tough marine archaeologist.