by Zoe Dawson
The strong angle of his jaw was accentuated by a stubble of beard, the burnished skin across his cheekbones drawn smooth. He wasn’t just fine-looking, there was something so deeply beautiful inside, too, his boyish charm even more pronounced in sleep.
He had something that weakened her. Not so much his looks; she’d been around hundreds of handsome dangerous men. It could be the way he kissed, she thought, melting a little at the memory of his mouth. He could touch her in places she didn’t want any man to. The vulnerability warned her that connections had no place in her life. She’d avoided emotions like that, yet the only one she kept handy was her sense of commitment to duty.
We. There never was a we anything in her life, not since her parents were killed. That weakness attacked her again, the need to share, to not be so alone. But she couldn’t. Scarlett knew her job well, and everyone was not as they seemed. Even her. She couldn’t remember the last time she was just herself and not putting on someone else’s personality or clothes for the job. Like now.
But what if she did? What if instead of coming up with some story to appease him like she’s a runaway abused woman, she told him the truth, the truth about her family, the truth about what had happened to her, the truth about why she was here? She wasn’t a chump; she didn’t believe in happily ever after and unconditional love. She only needed to get what she came for and get out.
But what if she was wrong? What if it was all real, as real as what she’d felt for this tantalizing man? He was showing her that selfless acts didn’t make her a sucker.
Careful not to disturb him, she ran her hands over his silky head, gently running her thumb over the hairline at his forehead. She might have missed out on everything that was important in life.
She took another shower, washing herself thinking about where his hands had been and enjoying the memory of his touch. Drying her hair, she braided the strands and dressed in a lightweight white summer dress with minimal noise, not wanting to wake him, still not sure what story she would tell him, not sure she’d let him see who she really was. Worried that it might be too late.
Needing to touch him, she very carefully drew the sheet over him and smoothed it over his thickly muscled back.
The house was cool and quiet, the faint tinkle of wind chimes chasing her to the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose as she passed the dining room. That would have to be cleaned up before she made breakfast. She got to work.
After that task was done, she entered the kitchen. She went to the counter and opened a cupboard, grabbing a mug. Opening the fridge, she splashed half and half into the mug, then used her coffee machine to brew a cup of vanilla coffee.
She went back to the fridge and took out yogurt and fruit, then grabbed granola and two bowls. She cut up the strawberries and spooned the yogurt over them, then sprinkled on the granola. What had he done to her? Why was she making him breakfast and enjoying it?
She covered one and set it in the fridge and took hers to the patio.
Before the first spoonful reached her mouth, the sound of the French door made her look over. He stepped out and her breath caught.
Arlo Porter.
The sun caught him in dappled light as he walked across the patio in nothing but his unsnapped jeans, his lean body tanned and muscular.
“There’s a bowl for you in the fridge. The coffee mugs are in the cabinet to the left of the K-Cup machine.”
He nodded and disappeared back inside. Ten minutes later, he returned already eating a mouthful of the yogurt and strawberries, a cup of coffee in his other hand. His chewing slowed, and his hot, dark gaze raked over her as though she was wearing something provocative. After a lengthy and very appreciative perusal, his eyes finally came back up to her face.
A warm smile eased up the corners of his mouth. “You look great without makeup.”
“Oh, bugger,” she said, and rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her coffee. “We’re already shagging, so flattery will get you everywhere.”
He set his coffee cup down on the small terrazzo table and took a seat. “I’m being serious.” He took another bite of his breakfast, his expression earnest. “You’ve got such lovely skin, sugar, and a natural beauty that glows. You don’t need anything else.”
That was it. She knew it in her gut. He was in, so deeply in that she couldn’t lie to him no matter what was at stake. She wasn’t that woman anymore, the one who thought staying alone was all there was to be had in the world. Her mission and her vengeance seemed…so cold and empty. His mum had shown her such kindness, and Arlo had given her the benefit of the doubt several times, even when she was being a pain in the arse.
Warmth infused her, and she was shocked to find her eyes moist, her throat tight. His comments were genuine, meant without agenda or artifice, and she found that she could do no less.
She looked over the beautiful bayou, taking in the mist that rose over cypress and willow. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I didn’t come here to chili farm. Although it’s been more fun than I thought. I’ve discovered a beauty here I didn’t know existed.”
“Why did you come here?” His voice was softer, gentler than it had ever been. She looked back at him, met his tender eyes.
“I’m on a mission of my own. It’s personal.”
“What kind of mission?” he asked, his tone coaxing, caring.
She exhaled realizing only now that she had been holding her breath. “I’m here to find a war criminal.” She closed her eyes, her chest aching. Unable to sit still, she rose and paced away. “The man who butchered people in a small town in Kirikhanistan.”
“Kirikhanistan?”
“You’ve been there.”
“Yeah, I have. We had a classified mission there just this past year. A teammate was captured, tortured.”
She nodded. “A POW. Petty Officer Ocean Beckett.”
He was out of his seat in a flash, grabbing her upper arms. “What the hell do you know about that? It’s classified.”
She looked at him, his eyes narrowed. She placed her hands on his forearms, soothing him. “I was there. I speak the language. I gave the information to a CIA agent.” She struggled out of his grasp and sat back down in her seat.
He hovered over her, then placed his hands on either side of her chair. “What CIA agent?”
“Kat Harrington.”
“Why were you there?”
She closed her eyes and cradled her head in her hands. “I’m…I was MI-6. I was undercover to extract information about warheads that were being sold to—”
“Militant Briton Freedom Fighters.”
Her head lifted. Everything was in his file, so this wasn’t news. “That’s right. The MBFF have been a thorn in our side for some time.”
“The warhead they received was American. We’ve been tracking them all down.”
“From Naval Base Coronado. It was your SEAL team.” He nodded. “You killed those terrorists, Boris and Natasha Golovkin, decimated their network.”
“Blue…Ocean Beckett took them out. We…we were there to rescue him.”
The sick, naked expression in his eyes made her throat contract. And suddenly she was faced with a man who had been through hell to save his teammate, a man with such torment in his eyes, with such gut-wrenching emotion. For the first time in her life, she embraced that emotion, her own vulnerability as he was showing her his own.
“Thank you for the intel about their location.”
“He deserves a medal. But I can’t take all the credit. It was Kat. She was the one who came to us. I worked it out and got the information for you—two Navy SEALs.”
“Me and Wicked.” With an angry set to his jaw, he said, “We were busting heads and taking names to find out where he was being stashed. Then Kat came through for us with her underworld contacts, or so she’d said. You gave us the crucial information to rescue our teammate.”
“I worked for the dead banker who was murdered, Grigory Babkin. He lost his life and his family was killed with him. He was a terribl
e human being, but his wife and children didn’t deserve to die like that. Children suffer for their parents’ mistakes,” she whispered.
Solemn lines bracketed his mouth, and there was a somberness in his eyes, mixed with gratitude that tugged at Scarlett’s heart.
“You saved his life. They were dicking around with us, and then we got the intel we needed.”
With a start of recognition, she realized that the last time she’d seen that deep, self-contained expression was the night he’d been such a gentleman and tucked her into bed instead of having sex with her. Caught back in that moment, she tried to release the sudden tightness in her chest. Scarecrow’s gaze was unwavering, and for an instant there was an unspoken communication between them. The intensity wound her tighter.
“Kat is good at her job,” he said.
She let out a pent-up breath. “She’s the best I’ve ever seen of the CIA. Ruthless, but we have to be in our business. There is so much evil in the world.”
“I fight it every day,” he said with conviction.
She let out a tired breath and sat back, staring at nothing. She worked alone and under the radar. She hadn’t trusted anyone, not even MI-6 people. But if she’d trust one person in her life it would be Kat.
And—she focused on Scarecrow’s face—him.
He backed up, absorbing the information. “You were MI-6. What does that mean?”
“I walked away.”
“Sir Rodney mentioned he had an agent on the warhead. That was you?”
“Yes. I got them what they needed, then I left to come here.”
“Why?”
“I got a letter that he was here.”
“Who?”
“The Butcher of Timavir.”
By the look on his face, he was aware of who that was.
He sat down in a chaise, his brow furrowed, his face stark. “The Butcher. What is he to you?”
“He murdered my family in front of me. I was three years old. He came into the house and gunned them down. I was caught under my mother as she turned to protect me.”
“How did you survive that?”
She rose, unable to speak. Folding down, she settled onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. The horror of that day hadn’t dimmed—her innocence stolen from her, her childhood vanished. He remained motionless, then with a gruff sound, he enfolded her in a fierce embrace, holding her as if she were his next breath. Fighting against the tears, she closed her eyes as he cradled her head in the hollow of his throat. He ran his hand over the back of her head, trying to comfort her by touch alone. Taking a deep tremulous breath, he caught her head in his hands, her chest so full she could barely breathe. She cupped his jaw, felt the muscles contract as he swallowed, and she tightened her hold. He tilted her head so that she looked at him, the rawness in his eyes going straight to her heart.
“You can tell me, Scarlett.”
She looked up at him, the richness, the wholeness, of her feelings nearly overwhelming her as she tightened her hold on his face. “An older woman, she came back after they left. I barely remember her face. I was too scared to even cry. She took me to the orphanage and gave them money to take me in. I missed my family so much, but it was where I learned to keep everything inside,” she whispered vehemently.
He caught her hand and laced his fingers through hers with a crushing grip. His expression scored with a range of emotions, he closed his eyes and pressed her hand against his mouth. “How did you end up in the UK?”
Fighting against the swell of tears, Scarlett tore her hand free and slipped her arms around his neck, a soft sob wrenching loose when he gathered her up in a hard, tight embrace. He roughly tucked her head against his neck, a tremor shuddering through him, and Scarlett yielded to the pressure of his arms, tears of a deep, wrenching regret slipping from beneath her lashes. Despite her life of living solely alone, this felt so good, so right.
He wound his hand in her braid, his thumb brushing at the ends.
“After months passed, I was adopted by a British family and brought to London to live. I never really gave them a fair shake. They died in a car accident several years ago…” Her voice broke. “…and left me everything. I never got a chance to thank them.” They had been nothing but kind to her. If anything, it was Scarlett who’d been the wicked, difficult one. And that admission, even quietly to herself, evoked a wave of guilt that nearly smothered her.
“My father and mother did the best they could to protect us, but he made the wrong decision trusting The Butcher.” She couldn’t stop the sob that made her voice crack or the fresh tears that filled her eyes. “I never got closure for my family. I used to fantasize that I was dreaming, that something had happened, and I would be reunited with them.”
The first drop of moisture trickled down her cheek before she could stop it, and it was Arlo who reached up and tenderly wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb. She glanced down at him, so grateful for his silent understanding and his soothing touch that was like a balm to the pain she’d carried in her heart for so long.
She gathered her composure and continued, because there was a whole lot more of the story to tell. “So, I ended up in the lap of luxury where my every whim was granted. But none of it meant anything. Without love, it all felt so fake, like I was living someone else’s life.”
She drew a shuddering breath to ease the pressure in her chest, but it did no good. “I think I was afraid that they wouldn’t love me the same way my parents had loved me, so it just became safer for me to keep up those emotional walls between us. I didn’t want to set myself up for the kind of hurt I went through when I lost my real parents.” Biting on her quivering bottom lip, she met Scarecrow’s eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to go through all of that,” he murmured. “You were trying to protect yourself after some pretty heavy-duty trauma.”
She nodded, acknowledging his compassion. She was now realizing that her actions as a young girl had carried through to her adulthood and had affected so many aspects of her life. Including the ability to let anyone get close emotionally. And that had cost her dearly with her adoptive parents.
“It’s my fault that I never had something deeper with them,” she said, confessing the painful truth. “They tried so hard.”
“You can come to terms. That’s all you can do.”
But Scarlett didn’t know how to make it right or how to reconcile nearly twenty years of what had been a difficult relationship between her and her adoptive parents. How could she talk to them when they were dead?
The realization made her feel so ungrateful and ashamed, and having just poured her heart out to Scarecrow, she felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and she tried to cover it up with sarcasm. “I can’t talk to dead people.”
It wasn’t even the whole of the story. She still had to tell him the rest. Get it all out.
“I’m facing that dilemma myself. I miss my dad and wish I had come home sooner. It’s a great source of regret for me.”
“You have your mum. That’s a good thing. But, tell me, how long did your uncle bully your family, and how much of Hank’s shit did you have to take?”
He stiffened, and she knew she’d read the whole situation exactly right. She rose up and paced away from him. At the liquor cart, she poured them each two fingers of fine Irish whiskey. She handed him the glass and stood there waiting for him to gather his thoughts. It didn’t take long.
“More years than I care to own up to. I was a small, skinny kid up until high school, then when I grew into my body…” He threw the liquor back and she followed suit, the burning path leaving a brilliant afterglow.
“You beat the piss out of him, and he didn’t bother you again?”
A smile curved his mouth. “Something like that.” He shifted and leaned back, crossing his ankles. “My uncle didn’t think much of women. He treated his own wife viciously. I remember my aunt being this flinching, scared lump of a woman with bruises. Always the bruises. She was kind to m
e.” He rose and went to the cart and poured himself another, then came over and filled her glass.
Knocking it back, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She up and left him when I was ten. He seemed even nastier after that, and sometimes I wonder if Hank really had a chance with that kind of father. I pitied him more than anything else, and he resented the hell out of that. My uncle was just as horrible to his sister, my mom, but my dad always stood in his way. My uncle tried to cow him, but then he always backed down.”
“Your dad was a bang-up man.”
Scarecrow nodded and settled back on the chaise. “That explains your connection to what went down in Kirikhanistan and that you’re good at going undercover.”
“Didn’t fool you.”
“I’m not easily fooled, Scarlett. What leads do you have?”
She sighed. “Nada. I went to city hall for the records of people who immigrated here, but there was a fire twenty-eight years ago and the records were destroyed. I was thinking about contacting Kat and having her dig a little for me. She owes me a favor.” She set her glass down on the table. “I was sure the person who sent me the letter would have revealed himself.”
“There was someone watching you the other night.”
She shrugged. “What is he waiting for, then?”
“Don’t know. What do you hope to accomplish?”
“When my family was murdered, fine art objects and priceless paintings were looted, along with tapestries and rugs, antique furnishings, dishes, and silver; jewelry and watches, all antiques. They took everything of value from not only my family, but the whole city. None of it has surfaced. I’ve kept track and have painstakingly reconstructed a list not only from people who were robbed, but servants who worked in my household.”
“Who exactly was your dad?”
“He was the governor.” Scarecrow nodded, and she continued, “Kirikhanistan has a long line of corruption. The coup was the beginning of the takeover, setting the stage for the rebellion of the people that the Golovkins cashed in on. They were just as corrupt as the state is now.”
“It’s a freaking cesspool.”