“Yes, she’s my grandmother. I’m taking her to see her hometown of Killarney. That’s on this tour, y’know. And Dublin, where Gran studied at Trinity College. What do I do? I coach tennis and cross-country. I also teach high school French and Spanish. Is this your first trip to England and Ireland?”
“England, no. Ireland, yes. It’s a country I’ve always wanted to see.”
“Grandma’s Irish born. McCoy’s her maiden name. Can’t get any more Irish than that.”
“No, I guess not. Funny, I overheard your grandmother and that woman over there speaking French.”
Meg glanced at the two women, their heads huddled together over a guidebook. “Gran’s a whiz at languages. Fluent in several. That lady’s French Canadian, so Grandma’s having a ball practicing her French. She doesn’t get much of a chance at home.”
The hunk smiled at her. His teeth were even and white. When he blinked, she noticed his long, dark eyelashes. He ran a hand through his wavy, dark hair. His bangs curled a little. Oh, Lord…
“You teach French and Spanish, so it must run in the family. That linguistic talent.”
Feeling extremely self-conscious, Meg shrugged and clammed up. It was common for strangers to ask these sorts of questions, dance around the facts of each other’s lives with stilted questions and replies. It wasn’t that so much as the way he looked at her, like something was troubling him. Ha, maybe guilt, she decided.
She glanced at the ring finger of his left hand. No ring. But that meant nothing. Derek the jerk had lied about his single status for months. One of the women he’d tried to pick up was one of her single colleagues. She’d showed Meg the guy’s card, reported what he’d said to her. How careless of him! Engaged, and still passing for single.
There were too many conniving scoundrels out there, preying on naïve, lonely women. Meg was lonely maybe, but not naïve. Not any longer, anyway. She’d learned to be friendly to men without encouraging them, but her distrust ran deep. Distrust of them, but also of herself and her own weakness.
Lifting her chin, she joined the rearmost stragglers of their group. Whatever Robert was now telling her fellow visitors, however, Meg couldn’t focus on. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something different about Jake Bernstein. A gravity…or seriousness, that seemed to temper what he said. As if he were present but didn’t really want to be.
How foolish was that?
Even more foolish was her body’s reaction to him!
Hadn’t she learned anything in the past few years? For most men, seducing women was a form of recreation, like Saturday tag football. Some of them collected trophies of their conquests or wins, like a girl’s panties or bra. Derek had kept one of her lacy black bras, refused to give it back—the creep! Meg wouldn’t be surprised if he’d tacked it on his wall.
The hunk was standing by one of the Gothic columns, gazing up at the ribbed stone arches overhead. This one, Meg sensed, had deep waters despite his gorgeous GQ looks. Then again, she could be wrong. Maybe she knew diddly-squat about men, even at twenty-six. She knew diddly about life, too, except that when you were wounded, you found a way to heal. And then you kept on going.
Surviving…brokenhearted or not. That’s what it was all about. One day at a time, keeping faith in yourself. Doing your life’s work.
As though sensing her regard, Jake’s gaze dropped to the stone floor. Then he looked at her and smiled. It was a thoughtful smile. Not the least bit seductive or predatory.
A smile that made her heart flip over.
Oh, you stupid girl.
****
“Let’s just sit, Grandma,” she said. “Robert’s in his element in that gift shop. I think he gets a cut of every souvenir they buy. It may take awhile. I told him we’d wait here.”
They’d visited Westminster Abbey, the two houses of Parliament, and then came back to the Abbey’s entrance. What a whirlwind morning!
After a fast-paced stroll around the House of Commons and the House of Lords, followed by a stop at the Abbey’s gift shop, Meg urged her grandmother to rest on the bench outside the entrance. Pangs of guilt stabbed at her.
She was painfully aware that the elderly woman was suffering from shortness of breath and chronic rheumatoid arthritis even though she was physically active for her age. The past two or three years, Meg had noticed her grandmother’s decline in energy and good spirits. Her high blood pressure and atherosclerosis exacerbated her general age problems.
It wasn’t the first time Meg regretted this trip, especially since the idea had been hers to begin with. Returning to her grandmother’s origins was meant to lift her spirits, not dampen them or make her suffer.
Mary Snider took a small bottle of pain reliever tablets from her purse, shook out two into her palm. Her hands were gloved, as much to keep the cold out as to conceal her gnarled, arthritic fingers. “Meggie, give me the water bottle, sweetheart.”
Out of her big hobo bag, Meg produced the water. She unscrewed the cap and handed it to her grandmother. “Gran, maybe we shouldn’t have come. I feel like I’m dragging you around. You don’t seem to be enjoying it very much.”
After a long drink, Mary Snider handed back the bottled water and smiled weakly. Although sunny, the breeze skittering along the sidewalk and forecourt was cool, making the woman gather her coat more closely about her.
“It’s the cold, Meggie. Dallas is so warm in June, these ol’ bones aren’t used to chilly weather anymore. It’s been a long time…I barely recognize any of it anymore.” Mary looked around, glanced up at the Gothic facade of the eight-hundred-year-old Abbey. “A very long time since I was here. It’s all changed.”
“Maybe it’s turning out to be too much for you. I thought you’d enjoy visiting your old haunting grounds. Now I’m thinking we waited too long.”
Mary made an impatient noise. “Nonsense. Your grandfather kept wanting to bring me back, but I put him off for years. Too busy, other places to see—there were always excuses. Your Uncle John wanted me to come back. The truth is, sugar, I never really had any desire to come back. Only with you now, it seems like the right time. One last look at, uh, everything…” She smiled at her granddaughter and sighed. “Being with you, spending all this time together…that’s all I really wanted.” She patted Meg’s knee and sank back against the bench.
Again, Meg felt more than a little guilt. They should never have come. It was her fault for insisting, for pushing the idea on her grandmother. But in all truth, she’d had no clue that her grandmother’s gradual decline would take such a sharp downturn.
Before them, a shadow formed, causing Meg to look up. She shaded her eyes and recognized, with a sudden lurch of her stomach, the tall, handsome banker from Virginia.
“Jake Bernstein…from Virginia,” her grandmother remarked drily; she appeared perturbed by the interloper.
Not Meg. Her pulse quickened. Her grandmother had physical ailments but there was no problem with her memory. Neither one had forgotten the handsome hunk’s name. Smiling up at him in greeting, her eyes devoured him from bottom to top. Again.
Glancing upward, she noted with a quiet inner pleasure the muscular length of his legs, the slim hips emphasized by the lower hem of a leather bomber-style jacket that sat at his waist. Her gaze raked over the width of chest and square shoulders, the lanky span of arms. His handsome face, with beautiful green eyes that seemed to penetrate her like laser beams, had just enough ruggedness to it to avoid being pretty. His skin was lightly tanned as though he spent an hour or so outside every day. She liked the fact that he had whiskers on his cheeks. It kept his face from being perfect. But who WAS this man? He’d given her sidelong looks all morning.
“Don’t blame you for taking a break. We’ve been going nonstop for hours. Time for tea and crumpets?”
“I think Robert’s a coffee man. We’ve been stopping at Starbucks every morning.” She smiled. “Have a seat,” Meg invited casually, tethering her leaping heart. She was determined
to be friendly to this total stranger but maintain her distance. “You’ve met my grandmother, Mary Snider. We’re from Frisco, Texas.” At his puzzled look, she added, “Near Dallas.”
“Mr. Bernstein, what do you do in Virginia?” her grandmother inquired, moving over to give them all more room as the man took a seat next to Meg on the far side of the bench.
“Call me Jake, ma’am.” The hunk was leaning forward, maintaining eye contact with both women. “I’m an investment analyst for The Bank of Virginia. Regional director for investments. My home’s in Alexandria.”
“We’ll have to ask him about your portfolio, Gran. How is Wall Street doing these days?” Meg asked him.
“Okay if your portfolio is diversified. Not okay if you’re over-weighted in financials at the moment.”
“Was this a bad time for you to leave work?”
“My assistant and his summer interns were on top of things. It was now or never, so when a vacant spot opened up, I grabbed it. I’ve been to Europe many times but never Wales or Ireland.”
“You arrived late,” Mary Snider reminded, “What a shame you missed yesterday’s tour of Buckingham Palace and…uh, where else…oh yes, Hampton Court.”
“Also, Churchill’s underground War Rooms,” Meg added. “My grandmother showed us all where she worked during the war. The very room. It was exciting.”
“We toured the area where all the translators had their desks. Horrible, cold, stuffy rooms.” Mary Snider threw Jake a wry smile. “The claustrophobic folks didn’t last long. The concrete above our heads, they claimed, was several feet thick. When the bombs landed nearby, dust from the ceilings would sprinkle on our heads. We women started wearing scarves to keep our hair clean. The men, hats. It was like a rabbit warren down there…just horrible, squalid little rooms.”
Meg stared at her grandmother. Strange, the day before Gran hadn’t wanted to share much with the tour group and their guide. Perhaps it had taken a full day for the war memories to begin drifting back, so she could speak about them so dispassionately.
“Hmm, I must see them sometime…maybe my next trip,” Jake remarked casually. He glanced Meg’s way. “Meg, what did you think of Churchill’s War Rooms?”
Hearing him say her name sent a fluttery sensation to the pit of her stomach. She hid it. Buying time, she tucked behind her ear a stray lock tossed across her face by the stubborn breeze. Attention from the handsome Jake Bernstein was making her a little nervous. His nearness reminded her…all right, admit it. I’m lonely. And horny as all get out.
“Like Gran said, the rooms were small, austere, cold. It was a real underground bunker. Churchill had a tiny bedroom down there.”
“Amazing, really,” Jake commented, “that Churchill and his advisers conducted war strategy under those conditions.”
Meg nodded in agreement. “Successfully, too, since the Allies won the war.”
Mary Snider snorted softly and waved her hand dismissively.
“Not all the time, Meggie. The British made many mistakes—”
They were interrupted by the sudden clamor from their motor coach group. Robert Morse emerged from the knot of people, gesticulating in one direction, then another. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.
“Our fearless leader,” her grandmother said before sighing.
Meg assumed that Robert Morse, their democratically-minded tour guide, was doing his usual thing—trying to include everyone’s opinions about the restaurant choice for lunch. When the collective decision-making turned chaotic, Robert imposed unilateral rule. Their guide’s quirkiness amused her, an observation she shared with their new travel companion.
Jake laughed in appreciation. “You’ll have to give me more tips over lunch,” he suggested, offering her grandmother his arm as they stood to join the others. “The pound doesn’t buy very much, does it? Rate of exchange sucks. And, Mrs. Snider, I’d like to hear more about your experiences during the war. World War II is kind of a hobby of mine.”
“Is it?” her grandmother muttered, taking measured steps after heaving to her feet with Jake’s assistance.
Meg took the other flank, her forearm grasped by her grandmother’s gloved hand. Mary Snider was so vain that she refused to use a cane or show her arthritic fingers, something Meg sympathized with. Her grandmother used to be a beauty, even when Meg went to live with her at the age of two, judging by the pictures from that time.
Then in their late fifties, Mary and John Snider were always the handsomest couple Meg knew. It must be difficult to see one’s beauty erode, she thought, empathizing with her grandmother’s wishes to conceal whatever ugliness she could. In Meg’s view, that wasn’t all vanity; it was fear that everything Mary had once taken pride in was now slipping away. At twenty-six, Meg understood that fear intellectually, but not emotionally. Now, the best part of her life lay before her, not behind her.
She hoped, anyway.
Jake caught her eye. “Meg, what other languages do you speak? You said you teach French and Spanish?” Their gazes met over her grandmother’s head.
My, he was nice and tall—maybe six-foot-two or -three. “Yes, but I’m studying German now.”
“Wow.”
“The German teacher at my school is retiring next June and wants me to take over his classes. So I began taking German this year. There’s no shortage of Spanish teachers in our area—Dallas, Texas—and German’s still popular in our neck of the woods. Near us, there are a number of German-immigrant communities. New Braunfels is one.”
Jake shot her that sexy, gleaming smile of his. “You’re in luck, Meg. I speak German, although my American accent is thick, they tell me. Feel free to practice German with me anytime during this tour.”
Oh boy, that’s not all I’d like to practice with you…
Meg quashed that thought as quickly as it sprang into her horny little head. “Hmm, maybe, if you promise not to laugh at my two-year-old’s vocabulary. I only know the present tense. Are you fluent in German?”
“Pretty much. High school, college. My grandfather taught me the Münchner and Berliner dialects. He was born and raised in Bavaria, but studied and worked for a time in Berlin as a film editor. Until 1934, anyway. As a German Jew, he saw the writing on the wall. Got out when he could. He was one of the lucky ones.”
“Oh, I see,” Meg murmured. “Good thing he left.”
Her grandmother looked up and threw her a sharp glance, then dropped her hand from Jake’s arm. She shook off his help rather rudely, Meg thought, surprised at Gran’s behavior.
“I can manage with my granddaughter,” Mary said abruptly as they rejoined their group.
In tacit apology, Meg shook her head slightly, relieved when Jake smiled and lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. As if broadcasting to the world, Robert Morse announced the pub’s name and location—just four blocks away, off Victoria and Chadwick Streets. Meg stepped back a pace and leaned over to catch Jake’s attention. Their arms brushed together lightly.
“I’d like to hear more about your family. And whatever else you know about wartime London. My grandmother doesn’t seem to want to talk about it much.”
Jake nodded, his eyes turning dark. “Over lunch? That is, if your grandmother doesn’t mind—”
Their tour guide’s loud instructions and directions—for those who couldn’t keep up with the bulk of the group—drowned out Meg’s reassuring reply.
As she and her grandmother fell behind the group, trailing an older couple from New York, Jake strode abreast of an older man, traveling alone like himself. Another Canadian, Meg thought. Soon enough, the only other two single women on their motor coach—two sisters—scurried to take their places on the sidewalk directly in front of the two men. The four, forming a loose knot, chatted together.
Disappointment weighed heavy on her chest. The foursome’s laughter drifted back to Meg and crushed her spirits. Silly, but she wanted to get to know Jake Bernstein. There was no one else on the motor coach closer to her in
age. Thanks to her grandmother’s abrupt coldness, she doubted he’d speak to her again.
What had gotten into her, Meg wondered. Only two days into their travels, and her grandmother was behaving like a witch. Testy and bitchy. Meg blamed this mood swing on her grandmother’s aches and pains and general exhaustion from trying to keep up with the rest of the group, most of whom were twenty or thirty years younger. Still, there was something else about Mary’s behavior that was different. Out of character.
Whatever it was, Meg couldn’t put her finger on it.
Gran harrumphed beside her. “Meggie, you and good-looking, worthless men—you’re like a magnet.”
Meg dismissed her grandmother’s cynicism with a short laugh. “Maybe this one’s not worthless.” Another deep-throated harrumph. “Oh Gran, don’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson. My heart’s turned to stone.”
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Meg watched Jake’s profile as he bent over and said something to one of the sisters. The auburn-haired woman smiled up at him and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. Meg’s disappointment morphed swiftly into anger at herself. Her face flushed hotly.
Well, shoot!
Chapter Six
Jake smiled and waved. He’d saved two seats for Meg and her grandmother at the table with the single Canadian man and the two sisters from New Jersey. Walking more slowly than the rest, Meg and Mary Snider had brought up the rear when they entered the large, private dining room in the Ol’ Draught Horse Pub. He noted Meg’s broad smile as she and the elderly woman approached their table.
Pulling out their heavy, cumbersome chairs, he also noted the pointed look Mary Snider cast his way—a look-but-don’t-touch kind of warning to him on behalf of her granddaughter.
Well, too friggin’ bad, lady. I’m just doing my job. And not a bad job it was, he thought, fixing his gaze on the smokin’ hot Meg. Besides, the young woman appeared to enjoy his presence. For his part, he’d never dug an undercover assignment so much as this one. He found himself really liking this high school teacher, Meg Larsen. If they’d met in D.C., he’d be asking her out on a date. Any time, any place.
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 5