“I don’t want stitches. I want a scar,” Ronan said.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have an awesome one,” his mother replied, ruffling his hair with her fingers. “And it depends on the doctor, but they’ll probably tape your cut closed rather than stitch it. In fact, I’m going to tape it right now to see if I can stop the bleeding.”
Isabelle found a first aid kit under the counter and set it beside Anna, then handed towels, antiseptic, and bandages to her as required. In no time, Anna had Ronan’s cut cleaned and bandaged, and mopped the rest of him off as best she could with old towels.
“You’re the best patient I’ve had all day,” she said to her son when she finished, giving him a hug. “You’re very brave.” She turned to Isabelle. “Thank you so much. I—Look at your dress!” she exclaimed in dismay. “I’m so sorry. Let me have that cleaned for you. If the stains won’t come out I’ll replace it.”
Isabelle looked down. She had large splotches of blood on the front of her bodice and skirt, as well as the tops of her sandaled feet. Her hands and arms, too, were coated in it. The strong, coppery odor bit her tongue. She reached for a bar of soap so she could wash it off her skin in the laundry tub. “There’s no need. I hardly ever wear it and it cost very little.”
Anna left with Ronan. Isabelle rinsed the last of the soapy water down the drain and nudged off the faucet with her elbow.
“I’ll take you home so you can change,” Garrett said from behind her.
She spun around. He’d been so quiet she’d almost forgotten he was in the room. Now, with his unwavering attention focused on her, he seemed to fill every corner. He gave the impression of a man who could fix anything.
And yet he’d had no problem stepping back and allowing her to take control of a minor crisis. She hadn’t expected that from him.
Neither did she expect him to take one of the dampened towels, get down on one knee, and begin to scrub the blood off her legs and feet with it, holding the back of her thigh with one hand as he worked on each leg with the other. She rested her hands on his broad shoulders, balancing her weight, gazing down on his bent head. She couldn’t shake the memory of how good it felt to be held against all that solid muscle.
“You’re very good with blood. Sports injuries, too,” he said, addressing her toes. “You’d make a great nurse.”
“A nurse? Why not a doctor?”
She’d meant to tease him about sounding sexist, but he wasn’t playing along. He looked up at her in perfect seriousness. “Would you want to be a doctor?”
She’d never considered it before now. Absently, she smoothed her palms along his shoulders. She’d been well educated. She could get into a good post-secondary school if she applied herself. But without her father, she had no money for it. And did she want to spend all those years studying?
“No,” she confessed after giving it some thought. She had no burning desire to be a nurse, either. “I like children. I like looking after them. If you love them, they love you back. You get to bring out the best in them and encourage their talents to grow. You’re shaping the future of the whole world. There’s nothing I’d rather do.”
When compared to his sister and her friends, and their accomplishments, she sounded like such an underachiever, but she didn’t care. She did like children. They were the same everywhere. Innocent. Genuine.
He straightened, tossing the towel in the nearby washing machine with the others they’d dirtied. Bright rays of sunshine streamed through the window, splashing warmth across the slate floor. “Then that’s what you should do.”
She heard the frown in his voice, and the unspoken implication. There must be jobs with greater security than being an au pair. She already knew that. Someday, she’d need to do something about it. A lifestyle of poverty had worn thin very fast back in Bangkok. Once she’d settled things with her father, she could consider other options.
“You think I could be more,” she began, driven by pride to defend herself, “but—”
He interrupted her before she could finish her explanation. “I don’t think you could possibly be more than you are right now.”
The quiet words, spoken with such sincerity, flooded her with unexpected pleasure.
“Thank you.” She could think of nothing else to add, too afraid of sounding as if she’d read more into them than he meant.
He made a move toward her. “Isabelle, I—”
The exterior mudroom door slammed open. They both jumped. A little girl skittered into the room and made a beeline for the toilet enclosure.
Isabelle reached for a bottle of laundry detergent on one of the shelves with a shaky hand. “I should put Max’s T-shirt in the washer to soak with the towels.”
“I’ll get the keys to the van from Cheryl so I can take you home to change.”
He vanished.
She started the washer and added detergent. When she was finished, she went outside to wait for him. She could hear the children playing in the barn. The smell of cooking pork from the barbecue floated on the air.
It wasn’t long before he came loping across the yard, keys jingling in his hand.
He didn’t speak during the short drive. When they got to the house, he turned off the engine. It ticked in the sudden quiet. He rested one arm on the steering wheel and faced her, then reached over and touched her hand.
“Whatever happens with your father, you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here for you.”
They both knew that wasn’t true. He wasn’t here for her. He was here to find out what she knew, which was very little. She withdrew her hand, easing it from beneath his and settling it in her lap. She laced her fingers together.
“Why do you do this?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Follow me around. Look at me as if you find me fascinating. Touch me, and say nice things to me. And then, you pull away as if you did nothing at all.” She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I’ve already agreed to tell you everything I know. There’s no need for these games.”
He didn’t deny it, as she’d expected him to. He didn’t look sorry for it, either. He raked fingers through his sun-streaked hair, spiking it in the front. He looked like an older version of Kiefer, but much sexier.
And far more dangerous to her peace of mind.
“I do it because I can’t help it,” he confessed. His eyes glittered. “You seem to bring out the worst in me.”
She could say the same about what he did to her. She’d never had a problem with insecurity, or of second-guessing herself, before he came along. All she could do was continue to pretend that he didn’t affect her. That her heart didn’t race when he looked at her that way.
“Do your worst, then,” she said. “One of these days I’m going to call you on it.”
His voice dropped, developing a seductive edge to it that sent a frisson of awareness through her body. “You don’t want to do that.”
She clenched her fingers more tightly together. “No?”
“Absolutely not.” He reached for the door, popping it open. “You might discover I’m not bluffing.”
“Wait a moment.”
He paused, half turning, one foot already on the ground. Amusement—and something more—lit his eyes as they met hers. “You’re calling me on it already?”
Despite the tension twisting her insides, she couldn’t help but smile. “Not quite yet. You said you’d give me driving lessons.”
His gaze lingered on her face. “I did, didn’t I.”
She pried her fingers apart to appear more relaxed. “In order to apply for my learner’s permit, I need identification that meets the Access Nova Scotia requirements. That would be my passport.”
“I see your problem.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as if puzzling out what to do. “I’m sure something can be arranged.” He slid the rest of the way out of the driver’s seat and stood in the driveway. “Come on. We should hurry.” He leaned in, one arm resting on the hood of the van
, to repeat her words from earlier. “Everyone might think we’ve gone off to be alone together.”
Chapter Eight
He gave her full credit. She’d called him on one of his bluffs. He hadn’t seen it coming, either.
Giving back her passport was no real issue. It had been locked in Peter’s desk the whole time. Withholding it had become more of a game to him than anything. She couldn’t use it without being flagged in the system. He’d know her every move.
No, he’d kept it because he liked to torment her. He was going to miss the anticipation of finding her searching his rooms for it again. She really did bring out the worst in him.
He returned the passport to her on Sunday night, after dinner. Monday morning, after Isabelle called to confirm the hours of operation, they loaded the children in the minivan and headed to the city, where she’d write her test for her learner’s permit. After that, they were to meet Cheryl for lunch at a restaurant near her law office on the waterfront.
The Access Nova Scotia office was buried in a large industrial park on the outskirts of the city. Garrett took the children for ice cream while they waited for Isabelle. When they returned she still hadn’t come outside to the parking lot, so Garrett rolled down the windows and shut off the engine. Heat rose in shimmering waves off the pavement, but a good cross breeze blew through the van so it wasn’t unbearable. He settled in, prepared for the inescapable complaints of “I’m bored.” Isabelle had braided both girls’ hair and they looked pretty cute, but it wouldn’t be long until Kiefer, who was sitting between them, got his hands on one and had a sister crying. He checked his watch.
He’d give it five minutes.
In the meantime, he mulled over the latest information from his director. They’d spoken the night before. Garrett had given him the address of those parties in Amsterdam as well as the first names of several guests.
“It’s a private penthouse,” the director had said. “Belonging to a Canadian ex-pat by the name of Bernard Vanderloord. Ring any bells?”
“No,” Garrett confessed. “Should it?”
The director’s voice was grim, and loaded with inference. “He’s a close personal friend of our Minister of Defence. They went to school together.”
Things had become far more interesting. And troublesome. CSIS reported directly to two ministers—Defence and Justice—but at the discretion of the CSIS director. While this had wide-ranging implications, overall, it could only be good news for Isabelle. “I take it we won’t be filing any official report?”
“Not at this point.”
Which meant her name would be kept out of the investigation, at least for the time being. If they managed to find her father, CSIS would have no further interest in her. Not if her involvement was as peripheral as she claimed.
Garrett wasn’t as confident about that as he’d like to be. If she’d been at a party with guests who had connections to high-ranking government officials, she had to know. These people wouldn’t be low profile. Not by anyone’s definition. And Isabelle was very astute.
“So what would Marc Beausejour be doing at a party in Amsterdam thrown by the Minister of Defence’s close personal friend?” he wondered out loud.
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Garrett heard a rustling of papers. “As far as we can tell, Vanderloord is clean. If the Americans or the Brits know anything to the contrary, they haven’t shared it. But he has some serious international business connections in aerospace and defense. Unfortunately, the names Beausejour’s daughter gave you don’t match any of them. These parties Vanderloord is throwing must be private. It’s possible they’re nothing significant, just a gathering of friends. The best way to find out for sure is to question Beausejour.”
It was also the safest. Beausejour remained the lowest hanging fruit on this particular tree. “Should I ask Isabelle if she recognizes Vanderloord’s name? Show her a photo?”
“No. We already know who he is and that Beausejour is involved with him somehow. Let’s not give away anything more than we have to.”
The conversation had left Garrett on edge. He’d lain awake half the night, listening for Isabelle’s quiet movements in the adjoining room, going over all their conversations in his head to see if he’d somehow been played. If he had, he finally concluded, it was for her father’s benefit. He’d already known she’d do anything for him. What he couldn’t determine was how much her father was willing to do to protect her. He’d bet even Isabelle didn’t have an answer for that.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Uncle Garrett?” Beth asked from the backseat, bringing his thoughts back to matters at hand.
He glanced into the rearview mirror. “All kinds of them. Why?”
“Izzy could be one of them, couldn’t she?”
The conversation was about to get interesting. “Who says she’d want to be?”
Beth blinked. “Of course she would. Ronan’s mom thinks you’re hot. She says if Izzy doesn’t grab you, she will.”
It was his turn to blink. “I’m pretty sure Ronan’s mom was joking. Ronan’s dad might not be onboard with that.”
“Why not? If you have lots of girlfriends, why can’t Ronan’s mom have boyfriends?” Chelsea asked.
This was turning into one of those discussions that might make Cheryl mad. Last time, he’d ended up practicing yoga. “I’m not married to any of my girlfriends. Ronan’s mom is married to his dad. It makes a difference.”
“Why?”
“Are Mommy and Daddy married?” Kiefer interrupted.
“Of course they are, stupid. How do you think they got us?” Chelsea’s green eyes met Garrett’s in the mirror. “Is that why it’s different? So you can have babies?”
Tailing arms dealers in Thailand had been less stressful than this. He rubbed the back of his neck and shot a desperate glance around the parking lot, searching for some sort of distraction. A crumpled piece of pink paper tumbled across the pavement, coming to rest beneath a nearby Lexus. Other than that, nothing moved.
What was taking Isabelle so long?
Right on cue, as if she’d been waiting for his mental distress flares to go off, she emerged from the building. But she wasn’t alone.
Garrett craned his neck, trying to get a look at the tall guy who was holding the door and talking to her, his head bent over hers. He was young, maybe a year or so older than Isabelle, and sported a suit and tie. Off the rack, Garrett noted. Decent quality. He carried a frayed laptop backpack with earbuds dangling by wires from one of the pouches. Some kind of computer tech, if he were to guess.
She laughed at something he said. Garrett tried not to stare at them. She had that whole fresh-faced cheerleader look going on, with the long ponytail, cropped, tight T-shirt, and skimpy, hip-grazing shorts. All that bare, toned leg…
It wasn’t that her outfit was inappropriate. She was dressed no differently than any other young woman her age. He also knew exactly what she had in her closet, and other than the oversize T-shirt and shorts she’d been wearing in Thailand, and a few lightweight dresses, she didn’t have much to choose from.
But Garrett didn’t like the way the other man was looking at her. She looked far too pretty when she was smiling the way she was now.
“Never mind, Uncle Garrett,” Beth said, her blonde head leaning out of the window. She had a streak of strawberry ice cream under her chin. “Isabelle’s already found a boyfriend.”
“She can have more than one,” Garrett said. “She isn’t married.”
“This one’s as hot as you are,” Chelsea added.
“Do you even know what that means?” he asked her. He didn’t plan to take the blame for this if she did.
She crinkled her freckled nose. “It means cute, right?”
“Close enough. Maybe you should say that instead of hot.”
“Don’t you think he’s cute, Uncle Garrett?”
“I’m not supposed to think he’s cute.” His attention was on the guy’s body language, not his level o
f hotness. Cuteness. Whatever.
Isabelle’s companion handed her a piece of paper. She read it, smiled again, and appeared to be thanking him as she stuffed it in her shorts pocket. Garrett wasn’t close enough to hear, but that was his best guess as to her side of the conversation. Then she looked around and saw the minivan. He sank down in his seat and turned to the kids in the back, not wanting her to think he’d been paying any attention.
He could hear her footsteps approaching. Her sandals made soft slapping sounds against the sticky asphalt. She opened the passenger door and hopped in, waving a plastic card in triumph.
“One hundred percent,” she said to the kids. “What do you think of that?”
The girls, however, remained focused on their previous, unfinished conversation.
“How many boyfriends do you have?” Chelsea asked her.
Isabelle, used to children, wasn’t fazed by the apparent randomness of the inquiry. “Seven,” she said without hesitation. “What about you?”
“I only have two.”
“Does your father know about them?” Garrett asked Chelsea. He turned to Isabelle. “Who’s your new friend? Is he number seven or eight?”
Her face blanked for a second. “You mean the man I was just talking to?”
“That would be the one. Do you always collect phone numbers from strangers?”
“Of course not. I spoke to him for two minutes. He gave me a website address for an online running room he thought I might find helpful.”
Garrett didn’t need to ask how the guy knew she was a runner. One look at her legs said it all. He didn’t believe for a second that running was what he’d been interested in when he’d looked at them, either.
“Really? Want to check that piece of paper he gave you more closely?”
She pulled it from her pocket and read it. “Hmm. I guess he really is number eight,” she said to Chelsea.
Garrett shook his head. “You can’t possibly be so naïve as to think running was what he had on his mind.”
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