Lady In Waiting (Infinite Time Trilogy Book 1)

by Shandi Boyes

  That should have raised my first suspicion.

  Why would you crave attention from nobodies when the absolute cream of the crop was directly in front of you, striving for your devotion? Luca did because Regan couldn’t give him everything he needed. Luca knew it; I know it; Regan is just a little slow receiving the message.

  It is understandable. Her entire life was wrapped around Luca’s, so everything she thought she knew perished with him.

  I can’t wait to show her it didn’t.

  A flurry of buzzes, dings, and a cow mooing sounds through the truck in quick succession when we enter the outskirts of Colendale, Texas.

  My hand delves into my pocket to dig out my phone when Sally laughs, “Everyone knows when the Myers are in town. Our cellphones light up like a Christmas tree. The joys of having sporadic service on the farm.”

  While smiling to hide my grimace, I punch in the four digit code the salesperson at the Ravenshoe airport had me select when setting up my new phone. I can’t believe I didn’t check if I had service when Brandon failed to make contact. I assumed the forensic team still combing through the evidence was the cause for his lack of contact. I’m a fucking idiot.

  After scrolling through the email alerts updating me on Isaac’s whereabouts and upcoming schedule, I stop at an email from an encrypted server.

  Forensics found a partial match from the glove, sending details to mainframe. Theresa wants to be kept updated. BJ.

  Forgetting that I can’t access the FBI’s database from a cell, I store Brandon’s details into my contacts before opening up my Safari app. It takes me attempting to log in three times before I remember mobile connectivity isn’t viable.

  “Fuck!”

  It dawns on me that I said my curse word out loud when Hayden growls, “You’d do best to tone down that language before we arrive at the church. Do you hear me, boy?”

  After swallowing the brick in my throat from his deep snarl, I dip my chin. I’m in two places, torn between being a man and an agent. If Regan’s safety wasn’t involved, I’d shut down my phone and devote all my attention to supporting her during this difficult time. Instead, I reply to Brandon’s email.

  Can’t access data. Forward dets to this number.

  I jot down my new cell number at the end of my message.

  Like all good technicians, Brandon’s reply is almost immediate.

  What happened to your original phone?

  My teeth grind out the string of profanities I can’t say since Hayden is watching me like a hawk as my finger punishes the screen of my phone.

  Shit breaks. Get the fuck over it.

  I don’t know Brandon any more than the woman who sold me my latest fandangle cell, but I can imagine him laughing at my reply. . . or dying, once I read his message.

  Anger management is always an option. . .?

  Thankfully a second message quickly follows the first.

  I’m joking. Forwarding the information now.

  The file is big, so may take a little to download.

  “Not as long as it will take for your teeth to grow back after I ram them down your throat,” I mumble to myself.

  My wish to kill Brandon fades when a text message pops up on my screen a few seconds later. He wasn’t joking about the file size. Before I’ve even clicked on the blue folder icon, my phone announces its storage is near capacity.

  Not interested in the life history of the assailant, I scroll to the attachments responsible for the slow download speed. With the spotty reception, it takes several long minutes for the accused’s hair color to be exposed. It is mousy brown and longer than mine, which is curling around my ears after twelve months of growth.

  After another few minutes, I observe that he or she has three freckles on the left brow, one of which is large in size. He or she is sporting a curly hair you’d expect to find on a witch’s chin. With the structure of their forehead being more feminine than masculine, I assume the suspect is female.

  Just as portions of her murky blue eyes come into view, my phone is snatched from my hand. I’m about to rip Hayden a new asshole until it dawns on me that I’m the only traveler left seated in his truck. Regan, Sally, and over two dozen guests are standing at the stairs of the church, waiting for me.

  “Shouldn’t have expected any better. If you can’t treat your woman like a lady, how will you ever act as a gentleman?”

  Although pleased he called Regan my woman, I don’t get a chance to respond when he heads for the church with my almost crushed cell in his hand.

  Pissed, I take off after him. He has no clue how idiotic he is being right now.

  My turbines cool when I enter the church an inch from Hayden’s heel. The number of patrons outside was nothing compared to the number of mourners filling the pews, but that’s not the cause of my sudden loss of temper. It is the looks everyone is giving Regan. They’re not sympathetic ones.

  While returning their dirty glares with the silent promise of retaliation, I race down the aisle to catch up to Regan. My quick steps have me beating her father to the task of consoling her. She startles within an inch of her life when I curl my arm around her waist and tug her into my side, but my chest swells when she shakes her head at her father’s attempt to usurp the nurturing role I’m fulfilling.

  “I can’t believe after all this time they still hate me,” Regan murmurs when we are halfway down the aisle.

  “Nobody hates you, Rae. Grief makes people stupid, but instead of recognizing that, they blame the person they believe is responsible for their confusion. Luca isn’t here, so that only leaves you.”

  I feel her pulse rage through her body when her eyes stray to mine. “So what’s your excuse? You didn’t even know Luca, but you still give me the same wary stare the locals do.”

  “My cagy look has nothing to do with Luca, and everything to do with you, Miss Fancy Pants.”

  Her smile reveals she took my comment how I meant it. I wasn’t ridiculing her. I was complimenting her. This woman scares the shit out of me, but in a way I can’t help but encourage.

  After aiding her into a pew at the front of the church, I take the seat next to her. With a stern glare warning me to behave, Hayden hands me my phone before demanding the man sitting next to Regan find another spot to sit. I slide my cell into my pocket without glimpsing at the screen. My chivalry makes Hayden’s eyes widen. Not by a lot, but enough to reveal I finally got a check in his ledger instead of an X.

  Luca’s memorial is the standard one every church hosts at least once a week. If you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all. There is just a slight variance. This one has Regan stepping up to the podium. The confidence she exudes while mourning is inspiring. The dirty glares haven’t decreased the past hour, but she’s brushed them off. Remembering her friend is more important to her than retaliating to belligerent criticism.

  Silence falls over the church when Regan removes a tattered piece of paper from her pocket. From its condition, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover it was written around the time Luca passed. She coughs to clear her throat before introducing herself to the assembly of people staring at her as if they are meeting her for the first time.

  “I met Luca when he arrived in town with a city-slicker attitude and a spotlessly clean pair of boots. As my daddy always said, only a man with something to hide keeps his boots clean. . .”

  A flurry of black in the corner of my eye pulls my devotion from Regan. Black isn’t an unusual color for a patron at a memorial to don, but the bright red splashes covering the diminutive lady’s shoes catch my eye. Outside of this state, I’d be suspicious the droplets were blood, but since I am surrounded by over a dozen farmers with muddy, bloodstained boots, I don’t think much of it at first.

  While Regan’s charismatic personality changes some of the snarls directed at her to smiles, I twist my torso to more vigilantly assess the lady gliding down the side of the church. Since Regan has captivated the crowd as well as she does every man and woman
when she enters a room, I am the only one noticing the brunette’s stealthy approach. She walks cautiously slow, as if her three-sizes-too-large jacket is hiding more than a petite frame.

  My heart rate kicks up as my hand instinctively moves for my gun. I curse the air when my hunt comes up empty. I couldn’t clear my gun through customs without exposing that I am an agent, so I traveled without my weapon of choice. It was stupid of me to do. How can I protect Regan without adequate equipment? I can think of a few ways, but none of them are legal.

  I watch the brunette like a hawk, praying Regan’s ability to wipe my senses has all my receptors askew. Perhaps the unnamed brunette can’t afford a better-fitting jacket, so she opted for what she had? I’m not from money, so I understand not being able to keep up with the latest trends.

  When the female crosses a large-paned glass window at the side of the church, her face becomes exposed. She is pretty but in a plain, unsophisticated way. Her eyes are murky blue in color, and her bushy eyebrows barely conceal a large mole sitting on the top of her left brow.

  I jump to my feet when I spot the wiry hair protruding from the middle of it. Although surprised by my sudden lurch, Regan continues with Luca’s tribute, none the wiser that the woman who threatened to hack her into pieces is sneaking up on her.

  I step to the left, gaining the brunette’s attention since she can no longer see Regan hidden behind my shoulders. I jerk my chin to the exit doors on her left, requesting she leave quietly or face my wrath. The deep descent of the lump in her throat reveals she believes my threat, but for some inane reason, she continues moving toward Regan.

  When she pushes off her feet, I mimic her movements. I reach her just as she barges through a cluster of people huddled at the end of my pew. I move quickly to apprehend her, but not quickly enough to stop the carnage.

  To be continued. . .

  If you want to hear updates on the next books in the Infinite Time Trilogy, be sure to join my readers group: Shandi’s Book Babes

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  Isaac, Hugo, Hawke, Ryan, Cormack, Enrique & Brax stories have already been released, but Brandon, Grayson and all the other great characters of Ravenshoe will be getting their own stories at some point during 2019/2020.

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  Sample Chapter of Enigma of Life

  Chapter One

  A frigid breeze causes the hairs on my arms to bristle and goosebumps to form on my nape. It isn’t just the plummeting evening temperatures causing this reaction to my body. It is fear.

  When I press my hands against the railing, I relish the coolness of the stainless steel on my sweat-drenched palms.

  Snapping my eyes shut, I take in a lung-filling gulp of air. “You can do this, Isabelle” I chant to myself.

  Millions of people do it every day.

  I've spent a majority of my time today at airports. To say I'm fearful of flying would be an understatement. I'm petrified. My flight this morning was on a Boeing 777 from San Francisco to New York. I gripped the armchair so tight the entire eight-hour trip, the French tip of my manicured nail nearly snapped off.

  There is no logical reason for my fear of flying. I’ve never been on a plane that plunged from the sky or lost loved ones during a disastrous flight. My fear is just something embedded deep inside me. I want to say I’m generally fearless, an adventurous person who takes calculated risks on a regular basis, but when it comes to flying. . . I’m a quivering bag of nerves.

  Gritting my teeth, I push off the railing before I lose my nerve. I collide straight into a wall of hardness that sends me sprawling onto my ass. I wince in pain when my right wrist jars hard on the rigid gray marble-tiled floor.

  “I’m used to people falling at my feet, but not quite as undignified as that,” says a deep, thick voice from above. Although his tone is stern, it also has a hint of amusement behind it.

  Mortified, I raise my eyes, drinking in black polished dress shoes, a well-filled, impeccably tailored three-piece suit and one pair of the most exquisite eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. The pain zinging my wrist no longer exists as my eyes roam over the magnificent creature in front of me.

  More features come into focus: plump lips, powerful jawline, thick, luxurious hair long enough to run your fingers through, but not too long to be unkempt, and an ideally placed dimple in a chiseled chin. The very definition of a man is standing in front of me, and the visual is. . . riveting.

  Shifting his head to the side, he arches a brow. He assesses me as vigorously as I perused him. His penetrating glare pins me in place and has my heart rate quickening. Now I wished I had taken my roommate’s advice and dressed more professionally instead of for comfort. But when your backside is going to be planted in a seat for a minimum of sixteen hours, you want it encased in comfort, and there is nothing more comfortable than my black Juicy Couture sweatsuit.

  No, I didn’t pay two hundred dollars for a pair of sweatpants. I found these beauties at the thrift shop in San Francisco nearly two years ago. They have faded a little, now more a charcoal gray than their original black, but they still get the job done. I’ve removed my jacket and am wearing a white, fitted cotton shirt that has risen to my stomach during my tumble.

  After yanking down my shirt to a more respectable level, I return my eyes to the mysterious stranger. Once he has finished his perusal of my body, his mouth etches into a firm line and his eyes narrow.

  Clearly, he is a man who prefers class over comfort. His apparel does scream wealth and superiority. Not to mention his composure, which exudes importance and authority.

  Grimacing with embarrassment, I scamper from the floor. My heart leaps in my chest when he grips my elbow to assist me with steadying my footing.

  “Thank you,” I murmur before glancing down at the contents of my satchel strewn on the floor from our collision.

  My bag is full of the necessities a girl needs for traveling: lip gloss, a Snickers chocolate bar, loose change for snacks, a Kindle loaded with my favorite books, and tampons. Oh god.

  In a scurry to grab my possessions, I bob, he dips, and we headbutt.

  “Fuck,” he curses.

  I manage to keep my curse word inside my head, even though it feels like I’ve suffered a grueling left swing from Oscar De La Hoya to my right eye.

  My hand shoots up to rub the sting as I move toward the hard plastic chairs lining the hallway of the airport. My vision blurs, and my footing becomes unsteady as the first signs of a headache form.

  Plopping down on the chair, my eyes lift to discover the suit-clad gentleman gathering my satchel contents from the floor. Tampons included. Great!

  Once he has collected my items, he places my bag on the chair next to me. His masculine scent engulfs the air when he crouches down in front of me. Seeing him displayed directly in front of me has the depths of his eyes hitting me full force. It’s not just their unique gray coloring that has my brows scrunching; it is their intensity.

  “Are you okay?” The rasp of his voice sends a thrill of excitement through my body, causing butterflies to flutter in my stomach.

  Unable to establish words through my dry, gaped mouth, I nod. He removes my hand covering my eye, then lifts his own to run his index finger along the area pulsing with pain. Now instead of feeling the sting of pain, I’m feeling the zap of his touch.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” He raises two fingers in the air.

  “Two,” I mumble, staring into his hypnotizing eyes.

  “What is your name?” he queries as a mouth-watering smirk forms on his face.

  “Isabelle,” I reply, my lips curving into a smile.

&n
bsp; His handsome face is contorted with strictness, but his remorseful eyes give away his genuine concern.

  “I don’t think you’re concussed, but you need to ice it as a bump is already forming.” His minty breath fans my hungry mouth.

  I lick my dry lips before replying, “I’m fine, really.” Totally embarrassed, but fine nonetheless.

  A gold cufflink becomes exposed on the crisp white sleeve of his business shirt when he abruptly stands then holds out his hand. His brow cocks, wordlessly requesting for me to accept his gesture. I swallow a lump in my throat before accepting his well-manicured, yet still manly hand.

  After clasping one hand around mine, his other snatches my satchel from the chair. He grips my hand firm enough to indicate his superiority, but not tight enough to cause pain to my wrist still throbbing from my tumble. His strides are so long and fast, I have to jog to keep up with him.

  When he arrives at the frosted door of the first class business lounge, I dig my heels into the carpet, lessening his quick pace. He stops and turns. The air sucks from my lungs from the sheer closeness of his striking face. Most people would feel threatened by his complex gaze, but my body heightens with excitement.

  He tilts his head, his brow cocking again. If I hadn’t heard him talk earlier, I'd assume he is a mute.

  “I can’t go in there.” I gesture my free hand to the luxurious business lounge.

  My voice sounds so weak, I nearly roll my eyes at my dimness. Yes, this guy standing before me is. . . entrancing, but I’ve had plenty of eye-catching men in my life, and my composure is usually more. . .composed. But this mysterious stranger has me flabbergasted like a teenage girl meeting a member of One Direction.