Man, he loved her.
So did her husband. Peter got to her first, lifting the glass from her hand and giving her a kiss that had Garrett shaking his head. “Cut it out, you two. There are children present. Not to mention, I may lose my lunch.”
“You’re just jealous that I found someone awesome and you haven’t.” Cheryl held out her arms to him. Gold bangles jingled on one slim wrist. “Come here, you big, spoiled baby. I bought you a chocolate cheesecake for dessert.”
“I knew you would, so if I’m spoiled, it’s all thanks to you.”
As he hugged his sister, Garrett caught a glimpse of Isabelle, standing on the deck with a platter of steaks for the barbecue in her hands. She’d changed from the bikini into a short, tie-dyed, yellow silk dress that flowed like water over her curves. He’d seen similar dresses at the roadside markets throughout Southeast Asia. While simple in style, the colorful fabric and foreign cut, combined with her natural, light-olive complexion and dark eyes, gave her an exotic air. He couldn’t figure out why his first impression of her had been so far off base. She wasn’t plain.
Not at all.
But it was the wistful expression on her face, there for only a second, that gave him pause. From everything she’d said, and what he’d been able to learn, except for an irresponsible father who’d dragged her all over the world, she had no one. He had sisters, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins… The list went on. He couldn’t imagine a life not filled with family.
She carried the platter to the barbecue and would have slipped quietly back into the house without drawing attention to herself if Peter hadn’t stopped her. “You’re off the clock, Isabelle. Garrett’s cooking the steak and I’ve got the salmon. Cheryl wants to spend time with the kids. Why don’t you go pour yourself a glass of wine and join us?”
“Just let me get rid of my pantyhose first,” Cheryl said to her. “Then you and I can let the hunters show us gatherers how real men cook meat. We’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder, dragging Isabelle to the house along with her. “Don’t drink my wine.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Peter kept a cautious eye on his wife’s back as he took a long swig from her glass, then set it on the table beside the barbecue. “What?” he demanded in response to Garrett’s raised eyebrow. “I’m telling her you drank it.”
“Thanks a lot. My piece of cheesecake just got cut in half.”
Thirty minutes later, they sat down to dinner at the table outdoors.
Throughout the meal, Garrett studied Isabelle. She helped cut Chelsea’s meat for her, and mopped up the trickle of milk Kiefer spilled with one of the paper napkins, but other than comments to the children, she had little to say. It wasn’t that she was shy around Peter and Cheryl. Him either, for that matter. She simply seemed to prefer soaking up the family dynamics without interfering in them. She was an observer. The intelligence officer in Garrett wondered how much of her father’s activities someone like Isabelle might have absorbed, and if he could somehow make use of it.
“Peter tells me you run in the mornings,” he said to her.
She paused in the process of lifting a forkful of salad to her mouth, then lowered the untouched food to her plate. She rested the stainless steel shaft of the fork on the table and reached for her wine.
“I do.” Her eyes assessed him over the rim of the glass as she took a sip, no doubt well aware of where he was headed with this topic of conversation. “Are you a runner?”
He settled back, prepared for an argument and rather looking forward to one. He couldn’t say why, but he enjoyed getting a rise out of her. “Used to be. I thought I’d get back into it. A desk job has made me soft.”
“You’re welcome to join me,” she said. “I start at 5:30 a.m. Tomorrow is my six and a half mile run.”
She’d issued a challenge. He could see it in her eyes. There was no way he could manage that kind of run starting out and she knew it. He’d be damned if he let her win this, however.
“I’d end up in a coma if I tried that,” he said. “But I hate to turn down an invitation to be your workout buddy. Tell you what. I’ll ride a bike with you on your long-distance days and at least get in some exercise, then run the shorter distance days.”
She retrieved her fork and ate the mouthful of salad. If her brain were a steam engine smoke would be rolling out of her ears, she was thinking so hard about ways to say no. Garrett prepared for the next obstacle she planned to throw at him. He enjoyed a good challenge.
Instead, she surprised him.
“I’d like that.” She smiled. “Afterward, you can join me for yoga. Proper stretching is so important. It’s also good for strengthening the mind. We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” She raised her glass to him in a mini salute. Her eyes sparkled. “Being workout buddies will be fun. Thank you for suggesting it.”
“Great idea,” Peter said to him. “Good luck with your quest for inner peace.”
“Yes, great idea,” Cheryl echoed. The frown pinching her brow warned Garrett she thought it was anything but. She’d have a few things to say about it when she got him alone. He hated running and she knew it.
The thought of yoga was worse. Guys didn’t do yoga. If he tried to find an excuse to avoid it, however, he lost an opportunity to spend alone time with Isabelle. If he said yes, his sister was going to think he was pursuing her. She’d be right, but for the wrong reasons. “I’m good with the whole stretching thing, but I’ll pass on the yoga.”
“Why?” Isabelle asked.
Cheryl’s gaze sharpened into her courtroom stare. “Yes, Garrett, why?” Her eyes shifted to the children, who were listening to the adult exchange with open curiosity. “Because I’m sure you don’t mean to imply that there’s anything wrong with men practicing yoga.”
Damn it. He’d forgotten there were kids at the table. “No, no, not at all.” He scrambled to think of a believable excuse that wouldn’t dig him in deeper. “I’m just not very flexible.”
“Don’t worry,” Isabelle assured him. “Yoga’s great for improving flexibility. I’ll come up with a simple routine to get you started.”
“Make sure it involves flexing his mind, too,” Cheryl said to her. “His has gotten a little flabby.”
“Can a brain get fat?” Beth interrupted, her eyes wide and curious.
“Seems your Uncle Garrett’s can,” Peter said, which sparked another scolding from his wife.
Garrett’s eyes met Isabelle’s across the table. She smiled at him, and it was the merriment in her expression that did him in. He had to smile back, although his was more rueful. He could admit it. She was as clever as she was pretty, and she’d just outplayed him.
He’d underestimated her.
On so many levels.
* * *
“I didn’t realize you and Garrett had met in Thailand,” Cheryl said.
And Isabelle hadn’t realized that Cheryl didn’t know, because her husband definitely did.
The two women were in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and putting leftovers away. The men were getting the children into their pajamas and brushing their teeth. The unspoken question in Cheryl’s voice said she’d noticed her brother’s unusual interest in her children’s new nanny and had drawn the wrong conclusion.
The possibility of Garrett being attracted to someone like Isabelle was laughable. Yes, she’d seen the way he looked at her when she was wearing a bikini, and again when she’d shown up to dinner in a short summer dress. She hadn’t been trying to make an impression on him. She’d been living in a third world country with a hot climate and lightweight clothes were all she owned these days. The local dresses were pretty, cheap, and easy to pack. Everything before she’d left for Thailand had gone to a consignment store, as it invariably did when she and her father changed locations. Either she sold what she had no use for, or she gave it to charity.
She dropped a handful of rinsed flatware into the tray, then reached for the liquid detergent. Cheryl w
as a lawyer. Not to mention, Isabelle discovered that having the Mansfords’ good opinion of her mattered.
She stuck to the truth when she answered the question. “I’d found myself in a bad situation in Bangkok. I was stranded and had no money. Garrett was working at the Embassy and bought me a plane ticket home.”
“And then he asked Peter to give you a job,” Cheryl said, filling in what she saw as the blanks, and Isabelle didn’t correct her. “Garrett likes helping people. He’s always been that way. That’s why he chose to be a government program officer when our parents would have rather he went into the family automotive business.”
She sounded so proud of him.
“Is that what he is? A government program officer? What do they do?”
“Lots of things, but in Garrett’s case, he travels to foreign countries to work with the embassies. He transfers between different departments all the time. Sometimes he helps people immigrate to Canada. Sometimes he organizes disaster relief.” Cheryl fastened cling wrap over the remains of the cheesecake and slid it into the stainless steel fridge. She closed the door with her hip. “When he was in Bangkok, he was with the Canadian Defence attaché’s office. A Defence attaché helps foreign military contractors who want to do business with the Canadian government, and Canadian contractors looking to do business in foreign countries. His travel and work keep him too busy, though. Other than the odd week here and there, I don’t think he’s taken a real vacation in the last five years.”
Isabelle punched the settings on the dishwasher. It hummed to life. Maybe Garrett wasn’t CSIS. If not, that was both good and bad. While he might not have information on her father, he could still be in a position to help her find out what had happened to him.
But she didn’t trust Garrett enough to ask. She didn’t dare. He showed far too much interest in her. And she simply wasn’t that special. That Defence attaché connection bothered her, too. As an international security management specialist, her father sometimes did business with military contractors in foreign countries, although mostly in Eastern Europe. He’d only been planning to go to Thailand to meet up with her. He had no business there.
As far as you know, a tiny voice whispered.
And Cheryl said Garrett rarely took a vacation. That made the timing of this one particularly suspicious.
“Isabelle?” Cheryl was saying. “Something wrong?”
“I’ve got a bit of a headache.” She rubbed her forehead. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to head to my room for the rest of the evening. I’ll leave you to your family time. You haven’t seen your brother in a while.”
“As long as you’re with us, you’re part of the family. You don’t need to spend your evenings alone,” Cheryl reminded her.
“Thank you.” Isabelle appreciated the kind words even though she didn’t believe them. She didn’t want to impose on the Mansfords, or encourage them, either. She was here for the summer. She’d never stayed in one place long enough to become part of anything so it was always easier on everyone, especially the children, not to become too attached.
She stopped at the second floor to wish the children good night, then went to her suite on the third. She curled into the sofa in front of the television and flipped open the laptop. She surfed a few of the online shopping websites, looking at shoes, then went to etsy.com.
Nothing. No message from her father.
Where are you, Papa?
She tapped her finger on the keypad. Then she looked up the Canadian Security Intelligence Service Act. Whitewashed and boring. She moved on to her favorite ebookstores before finally closing the laptop, then read for a few hours before turning out the light and heading to bed. Five thirty would come soon enough. She hadn’t yet heard Garrett come upstairs, and wondered if he’d be awake in time for their run.
If not, she had no plans to wait for him.
* * *
As Isabelle stepped into the hall the next morning, she bumped into Garrett outside her door. He was leaning against the wall, obviously waiting for her. She bit back a scream, pressing a hand to her pounding chest, not wanting to wake the entire house.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry.”
He looked anything but.
He wore a gray cotton T-shirt, with DALHOUSIE UNIVERSITY stenciled in black and gold letters across the front, and a black pair of track shorts. His pristine white running shoes appeared to be straight out of the box—the brand, top of the line. While his hair looked as if he’d just crawled out of bed, he managed to come across as rumpled and sexy, not sloppy. He’d said he preferred weightlifting to running, and it showed in the heavy muscles of his shoulders and thighs, and the thickness of his chest.
She felt drab standing beside him. Her sports bra and pink tank top were ancient and frayed at the seams. She’d gotten her racing shorts at a thrift shop five years ago when she and her father were living in Amsterdam. Her running shoes, however, she never scrimped on. She’d bought a few quality pairs in Asia because they’d been cheap. She’d scraped her straight hair into its usual high ponytail. The tip tickled the bare skin between her shoulders, just above the back of her sports bra.
“I thought you were biking this morning, not running,” she said.
A crooked smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I am. But I might try running the last mile. You should be tired enough by then for me to keep up.” He stepped out of her way and gestured for her to go ahead of him to the stairs.
Isabelle remained where she was. “This isn’t your sport, so why are you doing this?”
“To be honest? Because Peter asked me to. He seemed concerned about coyotes.”
She held up her wrist. A red lifeguard whistle dangled from a plastic cord. “I’m safe. If this can clear a pool of a hundred screaming children, a coyote’s ears are going to ring.”
He started to laugh, the sound so low and sexy that heat pooled in her belly. “Seriously? You think a whistle’s going to stop something that’s planning to eat you?”
She had. Now, she wasn’t so sure. “When’s the last time someone’s been eaten by a coyote around here?”
“You don’t need to worry about the last person. You need to worry about the next.” He turned more serious. “I agree the odds are low, but it’s happened. These are wolf crosses, therefore unpredictable, and you, Isabelle Beausejour, have a complete disregard for danger even when it’s staring you in the face. I’m perfectly happy to go running with you, or biking, in this particular instance, to make sure you’re okay.”
She tried to read him, to see if he was telling the truth or trying to scare her. Peter had told her several times she should be careful, especially near the stretches of woodland, so Garrett’s explanation made sense. But despite what he might think, she didn’t have a disregard for danger at all. In fact, when she was around him, the needle on her hazard meter flipped straight to the red zone. That same sense of self-preservation warned there was more to this sudden desire of his to start running again. He was already fit.
Practicality intervened. It said to use this opportunity to her advantage. To find out what he knew about her father, if anything, or at the very least, what he wanted to know. There was no reason she couldn’t have a little fun with it, too.
“Are we still on for yoga?” she asked.
He made a face. “My sister will have my head if I don’t at least give it a try. Thanks for that, by the way. I plan to get even.”
It was her turn to smile. “You’ll love it. I promise.”
He went very still. His expression shifted, growing more intense, taking on the alertness she’d noticed in Bangkok that said he was mentally recording every minute detail about her. She’d done something. Said something. What?
“You have a beautiful smile. You should use it more often,” he said.
No flippant response came to mind. Most men never noticed her smile, or if they did, found nothing about it worth commenting on. She’d had boyfriends
, true, although they’d been just that—boys, with no interest in anything but fun—as transient as she was, and too young to think of the future.
Garrett was no boy. This was danger, a kind she wasn’t familiar with, and as he said, it was staring her straight in the face.
The hall was narrow, without a lot of room, and growing smaller by the moment. Minimal light filtered in from the window at the far end. She made a move to slide past him. A hand shot up. It hit the wall beside her head, blocking the way. His eyes, a warm, heated hazel, met hers.
“I’m sorry. That was intended as a compliment. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.”
He hadn’t. Not in a way she could object to, or begin to articulate, without feeling like a foolish naïf.
His eyes dropped to her lips. Seconds later, his mouth covered hers. Sparks of desire showered through her, leaving her lightheaded and breathless. His hand fell to her hip. One of his knees slid between her thighs, pressing her back against the wall. The tip of his tongue brushed her lips. Her fingers gripped the front of his T-shirt, whether to make closer contact and deepen the kiss, or to stay on her feet, she couldn’t be sure.
He pulled back, not saying anything, simply watching her face, a slight frown on his as if he, too, were puzzled by his actions. She untangled her fingers from the soft fabric of his shirt, digging deep for the calm she normally hid herself in, but he was standing too close. She could feel the movement of each muscle, and each inhale and exhale as he breathed. She didn’t want him to know how much he’d surprised her, or how much she’d enjoyed that kiss. She couldn’t believe it, herself.
“What was that for?” she asked. She sounded so normal, when in reality, chaos swelled and alarm bells rang.
“Do I need a reason to kiss a pretty woman?”
Yes. And his was one he’d no doubt carefully considered. She’d do well not to forget that. Whether or not he was CSIS, he wasn’t the type of man to be interested in a woman like her. Not in his sister’s home. Not near her impressionable young children. Isabelle had no education. No impeccable family. Therefore, he wanted something.
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