Special Ops Seduction

by Megan Crane

  He had the terrible notion that this game they were playing wasn’t a game at all. That it was more like an infection, and once it set in, he was a goner.

  But he’d been a goner before, and here he was anyway. He ordered himself to stop worrying about fitting and to start treating the situation they were in with the respect it deserved.

  Or at least with the benefit of his full freaking attention.

  “I don’t think that Oz is going to be able to narrow it down any further than this property,” he said, like an imitation of the ice-cold, strategic genius he was supposed to be.

  “That’s no worry at all.” Bethan grinned. “I was a teenager here, remember? Trust and believe that I know how to sneak around this house.”

  She stepped back from him, pulling him with her toward the hot tub. She made a show of kicking off her flat sandals as if they were high heels. Then she went over to the side and pulled out a screen he’d thought was purely decorative. Maybe it was, but Bethan arranged it like a privacy screen. For the benefit of whatever silent audience they might have watching them, she tugged it across the front of the hot tub, blocking off any lines of sight. Better still, it was wide enough that it covered over a good foot to the side of the patio, giving them an exit option.

  And once the screen was up, Bethan instantly looked neither giggly nor tipsy at all.

  Something thudded through him, unpleasantly, because he understood that while Bethan leaning into her femininity had disarmed him, none of that was the real problem.

  This was the problem. His no-nonsense soldier, the one who impressed him and everyone else in Alaska Force daily. The one who, long before she’d tested her mettle in Ranger School, had held off insurgents single-handedly while he was too injured to do anything but babble out his life story.

  Even tonight, while she was wearing one of those dresses of hers, this one a sleek sort of a shape that both emphasized her figure and yet did not cling to it, she looked like the Bethan he knew best. Her gaze was cool, considering. She was all business.

  She was so beautiful it actually hurt. Particularly where he was already too hard and ready.

  “There are too many guests in this house for us to be rolling around with visible weapons,” she said, which he took to mean she had nonvisible weapons stashed on her person. Like he did. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Jonas replied.

  As shortly as possible, for fear that what was happening inside him might show in his voice.

  Because now the blinders were gone. All the walls he’d built up were in rubble.

  He was screwed.

  But there was no time to think about that. She nodded at him, shoved her hair back behind her ears, and slipped into that foot-long space overlapping the patio next door. She was already at the glass doors by the time he followed her. He expected her to pick the lock, but she tested the handle first, and then soundlessly slid the door wide. Jonas was impressed with the way she did it, confidently walking inside even though the lights were on and there was the sound of the television from the next room.

  He followed, knowing that whoever was staying here would never know that they’d had visitors at all. He and Bethan were both so quiet, they might as well have been the kind of ghosts he’d always considered himself.

  A notion that sat on him a little strangely tonight.

  Once in the hallway, Bethan didn’t head toward the main part of the house the way they normally did. Instead, she looped around, leading Jonas up a short flight of stairs and then into a second-floor gallery that stretched from this new addition into the old. He followed her silently, on alert for signs of life in any direction, but it was quiet.

  They were lucky that it was late. Or late enough, anyway, for the guests staying here. He doubted they would have found the place so quiet if the wedding party were staying here.

  Bethan led him to a door and paused, cocking her head as if she were trying to hear through the wall. She opened the door slowly, carefully, then poked her head through. The jerk of her chin was his only indication that he should follow her, and so he did. And found himself in a more narrow, less openly splendid part of the big house.

  “These are the servants’ quarters,” she told him as they moved. And he knew she was deep in mission space, because she didn’t even make a rueful remark at that. Or about the fact she’d grown up like this. Like a princess, when he was—

  It doesn’t matter what you were, he snapped at himself. There is no you and Bethan to worry about.

  And she was still talking. “I figure we can either go rifling through guest rooms, or I can go straight to the source.”

  “What’s the source?”

  She looked back at him then, smiling faintly. “My mother is very particular, especially about parties. Which means I know that she keeps a master list of which guests are in which rooms, and that list usually includes likes and dislikes, gifts left for them if my father’s trying to make an especially big impression, and any other hostess information she deems important.”

  “You want to break into your parents’ room?”

  He was fine with that. Just surprised that it was her move during this wedding week.

  “I could.” And he thought she might have laughed if they hadn’t been standing in this strange little hallway, whispering. “Ellen and I used to do it for fun. Mostly to prove that we could, because it felt like a major rebellion. But no, I’m not going to drag you into the general’s bedchamber. My mother’s office will do just fine.”

  And then he was following her again as she moved nimbly down this back hall, making almost as little noise as he did. Something he had the impression she hadn’t learned in the army but here. In this very same hallway. A general’s daughter who wanted to make sure she could conduct her mischief as she saw fit.

  It made him feel something like nostalgic for a childhood he’d never had. For this notion, on parade this whole week, that this was what family was supposed to be. Not the pretense of endless harmony, or even mandated friendliness. But that no matter what, they could make each other laugh with old stories like this one. That they could come together and act right, however briefly. That there was a shared idea of what the family was, and everyone participated in it.

  When he thought about his family it was never a shared thing. It was always solitary and sad, no matter who else was there. It was always hunkered down in the back of a crappy old car, wishing the temperature would drop low enough that he would just die and get it over with.

  He was seized with the urge to shout that at her, as if it were her fault—

  Or maybe you’re tired of holding on to it, something in him suggested. Like some kind of sick vigil for people who forgot you. Regularly. While you were right there.

  And that was even worse.

  But there was no time to think about it. Because Bethan was moving swiftly, and she was just as lethal in bare feet and a dress that ended above her knees as she was in full tactical gear. She wasn’t holding a weapon, but the intensity of how she held herself and how she moved made him think that a gun or knife would have been entirely superfluous.

  And he supposed it was his curse that the Bethan that turned him on most of all was the lethal one, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise now.

  She led him out of the servants’ hall and into part of the house he hadn’t been in before. It was obvious that this wasn’t for staff. The halls were too airy. There were suddenly fancy rugs, art he didn’t have to be able to make sense of to know was priceless, and the faint sound of classical music from somewhere he couldn’t quite identify.

  She took him down from the second floor to the first. He wasn’t surprised to see that they’d circled around so that they were closer to the greenhouse out back. Rugs and polished wood gave way to graceful stone, and she led him toward what appeared to be a wall of windows. During the day he imagined
he would be able to look out at the greenhouse and the hills that rose up behind the house. But tonight, she led him down the airy hall of windows set with glass on hinges, all open to let the night air in. And at the end of it, she opened a large wooden door, very carefully.

  “It squeaks,” she whispered over her shoulder.

  She waved him in, then carefully closed the door behind them. There was another, shorter hall, and then Jonas found himself in the kind of elegant room that likely had a name, because all these sorts of places did. Solarium. Conservatory. Something normal people didn’t have. There were books arranged, not shoved in tight, on shelves. Low couches in vibrant fabrics with throws and pillows just so. Incidental tables piled high with collections of books and objects that all managed to create a kind of harmonious feel without giving the suggestion of clutter.

  “Why does your mother need an office?” he asked.

  “You have no idea how much time she spends handling the various boards she’s on,” Bethan replied. “It’s a full-time job. Besides, sometimes I think she just wants a little space that’s only hers. I can’t blame her.”

  She headed for the desk that stood against one wall and bent over it, looking through the items on the desktop with purpose.

  Jonas found himself drawn against his will to the fireplace on one end of the seating area. It was a decorative number with a huge flowering plant where there ought to have been logs, but it was the mantel that got his attention.

  Because it was cluttered with pictures. The general and Mrs. Wilcox when they were young. And later, accepting awards and commendations from various military and political superstars.

  He filed those away, but what interested him were the family pictures. Not the family—her.

  Bethan as a girl, all freckles and that madcap grin of hers. Bethan in her army uniform, clearly straight out of basic training. Bethan and her sister, mugging for the camera on some bench with the sea in the background.

  Bethan throughout the ages, captured forever in these pictures. And collected here, as if to taunt him.

  He didn’t think a single picture had ever been taken of him as a child, much less saved. Or displayed. And he didn’t feel sorry for himself about that, because he’d always thought such things were silly. That no one really cared that much to look at them anyway.

  But here, standing in this room while Bethan rifled through her mother’s things, it all struck him in a different way. Because seeing her in all her different phases made him . . . Well. It was that same nostalgia for things that weren’t his. That same longing that seemed to bloom into a kind of ache, because there was something about the progression. From a little girl with a gap-toothed smile and pigtails to the sleek Army Ranger. He could see the little girl in the Army Ranger’s face. And the suggestion of the Army Ranger to come in that little girl, too.

  It had never occurred to him that memory could be more than a grim, harsh weapon. That it could be a bow, tying things together and making them shine.

  And he thought, again, that it was possible he wasn’t going to survive this after all—that she had already taken him out when whole wars had tried and failed to do the same—when he heard the sound of that big wooden door creaking open.

  He wheeled around and found Bethan doing the same. Their eyes met in a flash, and Jonas didn’t think. He hit the ground behind the couch, hoping that whoever came in wouldn’t head for the fireplace the way he had.

  He froze, still and silent, as someone charged down that short hall, aware that Bethan hadn’t tried to hide herself, which meant she was facing the intruder.

  There was a silence. But not a good one.

  An indrawn breath.

  Jonas tensed.

  And then, “What on earth do you think you’re doing in here?”

  Thirteen

  Bethan smiled blandly at Charlotte, the housekeeper, who was literally bristling where she stood at the end of the hallway.

  “Oh, hello, Charlotte,” she said mildly. “I didn’t think you worked this late. I hope my parents pay you a lot of overtime.”

  “I’ll ask again,” Charlotte said, and it was very interesting to watch the woman without her customary polish. Without that obsequious smile, or all that service she clearly prided herself on. Or usually did, anyway. “What are you doing in your mother’s office?”

  Jonas had been over there looking at likely embarrassing pictures over the fireplace, and that had given Bethan the idea. She didn’t glance in his direction, because she didn’t want Charlotte to see that he was hiding there, so Bethan only smiled down at the picture she’d swiped from her mother’s desk.

  “This was taken on their first date,” she said softly. It was true. She held a picture of her parents taken approximately a thousand years ago. They were both so young they practically squeaked. And more, they glowed with the offhanded attractiveness of youth. He was handsome and she was pretty, and it was hard to reconcile these strange, bright creatures, who looked as if they were up to a bit of mischief, with her far more restrained parents.

  She set the frame back down and turned that smile back on Charlotte. “I remember when I was much younger than they are in this picture. Now I’m older. I guess that’s the way of things, but it feels weird.”

  But the housekeeper was staring back at her, still bristling with affront, and did not look particularly charmed by Bethan’s reminiscing. “Mrs. Wilcox does not like anyone in her office.”

  Bethan didn’t have to think about her character in this instance. Her smile faded a little as she regarded this woman who looked ready to storm over, put hands on her, and bodily remove her, if necessary.

  “Charlotte.” Bethan reminded herself to be kind. “This is my parents’ house. I understand that you work for them, and clearly they have certain expectations of you. But if I want to come in here and look at family pictures because I’m full of nostalgia, that’s what I’m going to do. With or without permission.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not acceptable.”

  “My little sister is getting married. I brought a man home to meet my father, for the first time ever.” It occurred to her that both of those things might, in fact, be factors in how she was feeling—and she wished she hadn’t said them with Jonas listening. But she pushed on. “It’s an emotional time, Charlotte, and having you try to tell me how to behave in the house where I grew up does not help.”

  “The general and Mrs. Wilcox take their privacy very seriously,” the other woman said stiffly.

  “They’re welcome to take it up with me, then,” Bethan retorted. But then she summoned her smile again. “Don’t worry, I’ll let myself out.”

  And then there was a bit of a staring contest. Bethan felt her eyebrows inch higher and higher on her brow, and for a moment, she thought Charlotte wasn’t going to give in. It made her wonder what the other woman’s actual job here was.

  But the longer the silence between them dragged out, the more she could see Charlotte waver. Until finally, she inclined her head sharply, turned with near-military precision, and then stalked away.

  Bethan waited until the door closed behind her. Then went over to make sure that she hadn’t simply opened and shut it but stayed inside. But the small hallway was empty. When she came back into the room, it was just in time to watch as Jonas rose from his hiding place.

  Like some kind of mythical creature. Lethal. Glorious. A song to be sung, an epic tale to be told.

  Settle down, she ordered herself.

  “Way to handle the staff,” he said dryly. “I bet they taught you that in finishing school.”

  Bethan opted not to argue about the kinds of schools she’d attended. “Something about her rubs me the wrong way. It’s not that I think she’s some kind of operative, necessarily. But I’m their daughter.”

  “Did you get what you needed?” Jonas asked in his usual cool, unbot
hered way. As if the petty concerns of mere mortals were beneath him.

  Maybe someday she would understand why she found that so compelling.

  Maybe someday she wouldn’t look to him for all the things the two of them would never be.

  But none of that mattered. Not tonight.

  “As expected, my mother has a spreadsheet,” she said instead, briskly. Professionally. “How much do you want to bet our favorite CEO likes to keep tabs on people’s bedrooms?”

  Jonas’s eyes gleamed. “Seems as good a place to start as any.”

  If she was interpreting laconic Jonas-speak correctly, that meant he was thrilled.

  They made their way back into the main part of the house, skirting what sounded like security doing a sweep— or Charlotte the housekeeper, Bethan thought, wandering around and sticking her nose in.

  There were two likely culprits staying in the house, according to her mother’s notes in elegant handwriting that Bethan could have identified from a mile off. Lewis Stapleton was here with his full-on Texas wife and his staff, up in one of the expansive guest suites on the second floor of the main house. Dominic Carter and two of his aides had been accorded similar accommodations on the opposite side of the same floor.

  But since Dominic Carter was the newest arrival, and they hadn’t been surveilled by Lewis Stapleton or anyone else before now, they decided to start with him.

  “The Carter party is in the Bougainvillea Suite,” she told Jonas.

  He grunted. “You grew up in a hotel suite?”

  “Certainly not.” Bethan stopped before she led him up the side stairs. Not the staff stairs, but the family stairs. The sweeping grand staircase was far too dramatic for daily use. “Most of the suites are part of the renovation. I think my childhood bedroom still exists, but I also think it’s been repurposed. As the sitting room, or possibly staff quarters.”

  Jonas studied her in that way that always made her fight off a shiver. “The way you say that makes me think you’re not a fan.”