Meg held up her glass and clicked it against his. “Here’s to good choices, then. And grand adventures.” A wicked little urge overcame her and she decided to have some fun with him. Jake was so serious right now and her heart was fluttering too wildly. Time to poke him a little, test him.
“Y’know, Jake, Grandma told me I should sample you, like a box of chocolates, but not buy the whole box. She says you’re eye-candy. What d’ya think?”
Startled, he sat back and straightened in his seat. He blinked a couple of times. For the first time in the four days she’d known him, he sputtered and appeared tongue-tied. He nearly dropped his glass, which he set down carefully on the table. Slowly, a troubled frown formed on his handsome face. His cheeks flushed red.
“Your grandmother said that?”
“She called you eye-candy. I think she was something of a femme fatale in her younger days. From what she—and Grandpa, have said—she had lots of beaus, as she called them. So, what d’ya think? Should I use you for sex, then dump you when I’m done with you?”
He gave a short, cynical snort. “The first part, yeah. Not the second part. That hurts.”
“Why not? Don’t men do that to women all the time?”
He appeared to consider that for a moment, then frowned and took a long draw from his beer. By now, Meg was feeling no pain. Her natural inhibitions gone, she was enjoying this little game. She glanced up to find Jake’s dark green eyes drilling into her.
“Is this revenge for what that slimeball, your ex, did to you? If so, leave me out—” He must’ve detected the slight twitch of her mouth, for he did a sudden about-face. “Okay, well, on second thought, use me, abuse me. By the end of these two weeks, you’ll be begging for more. I guarantee it.”
They both broke out in chuckles at the same exact moment, then sat back, bumped each other’s shoulders and let the laughter roll out. Finally, her head swimming, Meg held up her glass for another toast. She strained to focus her eyes on the glass to keep from spilling it.
“Here’s to good ol’ Texas leg-pulling.”
“You little witch! You really had me going there.” His big hand disappeared under the table and rested on her upper thigh. Then his big fingers curled under the cuff of her shorts till they grazed the silky edge of her panty-thong. She held her breath. “I like your idea. Use me all you want.”
His touch inflamed her cheeks, and she had to resist the urge to fan her face. And refrain from grabbing his muscular thigh…and maybe the nice package tucked between his legs. Her heart was pounding. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.
Good God, they were moving too fast! What about her vows from two days ago? Shot to hell, that’s what. No, maybe not fast enough—oh heck, she had hoped they could wait, get to know each other a little more before—She suddenly realized what was happening. A seed had been planted and had already sprouted. In her heart, something was taking root and she sensed intuitively the same was happening to him.
But Lord, if she was wrong again.
What a fool she’d be…Gran would be right. She was a magnet for the wrong kind of man. She’d be setting herself up for a hell of a lot of pain.
He was watching her, her inner struggle no doubt visible on her face. Suddenly, a woman’s scream pierced the air. Jake’s head whipped around. His hand was gone in a flash.
At a table in the far corner of the pub, a man dressed in a black hoodie and blue jeans was lurching over the table’s occupants. Pulling back, lurching again and again. Shouting ensued. The woman at the table screamed again.
Mesmerized, Jake was already on his feet.
“Stay here, Meg. He’s got a knife.”
“What?”
As the yelling escalated between the couple at the table and the man in the hood, their side of the pub grew tensely silent. Fear froze people. As if they didn’t know what to do—intervene or not. Jake was by the bar, slipping past men on their stools who were bending back to watch the altercation. It was more than that, Meg realized; it was an attack. The guy in the black hood was slashing out with his right arm, connecting with the man at the table. Another scream. More shouting. The bartender looked paralyzed for a second, then sprang to the wall phone and placed a call.
Another slash and blood spurted. The woman was on the floor, her companion tussling with the hoodie on top of the table, trying to defend himself. Other women in the pub began to scream. The tables near the attack cleared out fast. One overturned and crashed to the floor.
Meg was on her feet, watching Jake skirt the bar and the booths flanking the opposite wall. Her hand raised to her mouth, stifling a scream, as she cried out after Jake. Instead, in her shock, it came out a whispered shriek, “My God, Jake!”
What happened next left her stunned.
Jake sprinted across the remaining distance, grabbed the attacker’s right arm, wrested it behind the man’s back—all in one fluid motion. Seconds later, he had the man on the floor and was pinning the man’s hand with one big sneaker, meanwhile digging his left knee into the small of the guy’s back. His muscular arms held the assailant’s neck in a two-armed headlock, then abruptly let go to flatten the man’s head on the wooden floor, pinning him. Only when the attacker dropped the knife and someone kicked it away, did Jake relinquish the guy’s hand and drop his second knee to the guy’s back.
“Get a rope or something!” Jake commanded the bartender, who’d just hung up the phone. “Something to tie up this punk! Also, a towel for this guy’s arm!” He indicated the man at the table, whose girlfriend was now at his side, trying to tend to him.
The bartender sprang into action, aided by another man. Like the other customers in the pub, once the danger had passed, Meg clustered around the scene. Jake was still straddling the attacker, like a pro wrestler over his defeated opponent. A man handed him a length of cord, which Jake wound around the attacker’s wrists in a complicated figure-eight, then secured with a bowline knot. Meg recognized it because her Uncle John had taught her and Jack various kinds of nautical knots.
Only once did Jake look up and acknowledge her presence. Sweat dripped from his face and neck. His dark brown hair was shiny and plastered to his forehead and temples. With one hand, he raked fingers through his hair from forehead to crown, then stood up. Jake looked calm and composed, wasn’t even breathing heavily. Strange, as if his exertion had been all physical, not mental at all. Meg felt herself exhaling a deep breath once Jake seemed out of danger.
“Jake, are you all right?” Meg managed to gasp out.
“Fine, I’m fine, Meg.” He smiled at her, inched backward from the center of the crowd.
The onlookers moved back while a few men came forward to help calm the couple and wrap the man’s arm. His arm was bleeding profusely from two gashes. People stared at both the bloodied victim and the attacker, bound but still thrashing his legs.
“Bloody hell!” was all the victim with the slashed arm said before fainting and dropping to the floor. The girl beside him was still shrieking and weeping. She dropped to the floor, too, and continued to weep over the unconscious man. Jake issued orders to two men standing close. One began wrapping the unconscious man’s arm, stanching the blood. Another one helped the woman up. Jake yelled at the bartender to call the medics.
He’s so cool-headed, Meg thought, her heart tripping wildly. Must be his SEAL training. He was commanding the entire situation.
The attacker continued to thrash about until Jake stepped back and applied a big sneaker to the back of the man’s neck. He bent down and muttered something that Meg couldn’t hear until the attacker’s half-crazed tirade subsided into low, guttural growls. Three other men came forward and helped to contain the attacker by sitting on him.
“Druggie, angry at his ex-girlfriend’s new guy,” Jake explained matter-of-factly to the bartender, who’d finally come over to assist.
“Coppers’re on their way,” the bartender assured the crowd. “Medics, too, miss.” The girlfriend looked up, her weeping
quieting a little. She attempted a small smile, murmured, “Thank you” to Jake.
Jake just nodded. As though he disarmed crazed, knife-wielding dope fiends every day of his life. While on his lunch break. With one arm behind his back.
No big deal.
“The constable’s coming,” the bartender said, “Thanks, mate. You American?”
“Yeah,” Jake said, withdrawing his foot from the attacker’s neck, “Look, we’re taking off. You don’t need me to give an eyewitness report. The dozen witnesses here’ll substantiate your story.”
The bartender looked dubious. “The constable—he’ll want to talk to you. Least, give me your name, where you’re staying. In case he needs it.”
Meg’s mind was all aswirl, a delayed reaction to the violence. She was relieved when Jake pulled her toward the door.
“Sorry, we’re outta here,” Jake called back, “Can’t get involved. I did my job, you do yours.”
The splattering of raindrops hit them in the face and they began to run the last few blocks to their hotel. Two police cars screeched to a stop in front of the pub just as Meg and Jake turned the corner. They slowed down to a walk along one cobbled street that led to the hotel entrance. The large, green-and-white awning with the red dragon—the symbol of Wales—was a welcome sight.
Meg held him back. Questions crowded her mind. He looked at her quizzically, his face wet, his thick, dark hair plastered Roman-style over his forehead, his black eyelashes glistening with raindrops. He appeared to understand that she needed to talk.
“My room?”
She nodded vigorously. Who the heck was he, this Jake Bernstein? Super-hero, super-stud or somewhere in-between?
They walked at a clipped rate past the bar lounge and stepped into the elevator. As soon as Jake’s hotel door was closed behind her, she lobbed her questions.
“How did you do that? Does the average banker know how to take down someone like that? Are you some kind of martial arts expert? Weren’t you the least bit afraid? Do you know, you could’ve been seriously hurt? I can’t believe you did that! You acted like it was a walk in the park!”
They were cold and drenched. While Meg ignored her soggy state, still heated by her adrenaline rush, Jake was plucking disgustedly at his sodden T-shirt.
“Okay, I’ll explain. Just let me go to the bathroom.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and she heard a toilet flush seconds later. Jake emerged a minute later in a terrycloth bathrobe, halfway through towelling his hair with one hand. In the other, he carried a large towel for her.
As he approached, the confident smile on his handsome face made her nearly forget her confusion. The collar of the bathrobe was open, revealing a triangle of dark chest hair, further distracting her. With one corner of her towel and without hesitation, Jake patted her face and neck, then handed over the towel to let her take over.
“You need to take a hot shower. Wanna share mine?”
Her eyes flared as his big hands rested on her shoulders. Their eyes met. Dear God, he was stronger than his slim, muscular build appeared. He’d taken down that young, husky guy—hyped-up on some mania-induced drug—in just seconds. Without blinking an eye.
“Jake,” she began again, “how—why—what happened back there?”
His hands remained on her shoulders, yet she felt no fear. Meg knew, against all common sense or reason, that Jake would never harm her.
“Meg.” Jake grew serious. “I told you, I was trained as a Navy SEAL. What do you think SEALs do? Scuba-dive all day and photograph marine life? We’re trained to locate and disarm underwater mines. Like all special force units, we’re trained in close-quarters combat, martial arts, munitions. Rough-water entries and exits, extractions, black ops. If we couldn’t take a man down in under ten seconds, we were booted.”
“But then you became a banker? How? Why? After all that specialized military training?”
His dark-eyed gaze flickered over her hair as he took the towel that hung limply in her hand and applied it to the end of her dripping ponytail.
“I got tired of the violence. Oh, it was fun at first, exciting, adrenaline-pumping. Why did I leave for dull desk work? I told you. One of our assignments was compromised. Poor intel, and we lost a couple of good men. Mission failure, in my book. I learned then how vital good intelligence was. Anyway, I left the SEALs, eventually left the Navy. The training’s always there, right below the surface. I guess you can leave the SEALs, but the SEALs never leave you.”
“You could’ve been hurt,” she choked out. The thought of that possibility greatly affected her.
“I’m glad you care—”
Without further thought, Meg slipped her arms around his neck. His hair felt damp to her fingers but his neck was dry and warm. She watched his eyes widen in surprise as she rose on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth. It was warm, soft, and pliable. Inviting. Tempting. Not the crazy, head-dizzying crush of lips inside the dungeon. This time, there was something else in their kiss.
It was what she’d wanted to do for days.
He angled back his head. “Meg—”
“I don’t want you hurt,” she rasped. He tried to speak so she kissed him again, shutting him up. Then she heard him growl softly, deep in his throat. The gentle kiss Jake returned made her shiver all over…and not from the wet clothes still clinging to her body. Their warm tongues met, the tender contact drawing moans of pleasure from each other.
They thrust their bodies hard together. She could feel his chiseled torso, his muscular arms like iron bands around her back, his stiff erection through the cloth of the bathrobe. Big, strong hands slid beneath her sweatpants and cupped her behind, the warmth on her chilled, bare flesh startling her for a second. A liquid heat pooled in her belly. A deep urge inside her was screaming to be satisfied. For a long moment, Meg thought she might stay with him. Make love for hours…ah, heavenly thought.
But no, she couldn’t.
Her grandmother was upstairs.
Jake would think her an easy lay, a slut.
It was too soon. Didn’t men like the chase?
Dear God, she was thinking too much. Slowly, painfully, Meg strained against his tight hold. His embrace loosened and she stepped back but couldn’t look him in the face. She berated herself for starting something she couldn’t finish. And for feeling so conflicted.
“I-I’m so sorry. It’s too soon.”
Jake just nodded, but didn’t argue. Her heart sank. In fact, Jake looked almost relieved. That bothered her even more.
Talk me into it…please.
Silently, stoically, he led her to the door and said goodnight with a simple, quick kiss on her lips.
Her emotions clogged her throat, so much so she couldn’t even say goodnight before she turned away and left.
Chapter Fourteen
Jake went back to the bathroom, letting the bathrobe drop to the floor. In a kind of daze of lust and longing, he showered and shook the chill off his body. His very blood and bones, though, felt on fire from the lingering aftermath of that kiss.
Not just the kiss. The way she kissed him. And what she’d said before they kissed. I don’t want you hurt. Meg actually cared about him. Was possibly even falling in love with him.
He turned off the hot water and stood under a cold spray for as long as he could stand it. Slowly, his swollen, throbbing cock shrank back to normal.
Damn, he thought in wonder, once his head began to work again. Astonishment and pleasure flooded his insides. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this—not when he was working. Not in the middle of a case—
Oh yeah, who says?
Human nature makes its own rules, Grandpa Nate would say. Fate and chance only mock us. Which means, there are no rules. Yaakov, mitzvah, you’re finally learning. Jake shook his head in wonder.
Sonuvabitch, it jacks things all to hell.
You knew it would, Bernstein. Yet, you let it happen.
Switching trains of thought, he pulled a
yellow pad out of his suitcase, sat down at the small table by the window and pulled out the secure cell phone the Major had given him. While he waited for the series of clicks, indicating the encryption was kicking in, Jake schooled himself and wrote down a few notes. He had to keep his mind on the task at hand. Later, he’d indulge himself and let his sexual fantasies about Meg Larsen play themselves out.
“Temple. That you, Agent Bernstein?”
“Just your friendly Yank, Major.”
“It’s past eleven, Agent Bernstein. Been painting the bloody town red with your new girlfriend? Apprehending villains in local pubs?”
“You have us under surveillance, you should know.” Jake inhaled deeply. He mustn’t let a proper British chiding make him lose his temper. “Listen to what I learned today. Mary McCoy Snider is fluent in German. She speaks German with no English accent. Claimed—to her granddaughter—she learned it from a fellow student in Dublin. A young German, whose first name might be Helmut, Heinrich or Horst. Supposedly her first big love affair. Check with Passport Control or Immigration to see if a German student from the Niedersachsen area of Germany entered England or Ireland in the mid-to-late thirties. If he stayed after the war broke out, he may’ve gone underground.”
“No English accent, you say?”
“Yep, but like her granddaughter, Mary Snider’s a mimic. Not surprising that she can learn a foreign language and speak it like a native. You should hear her French. You’d think she was a Parisian.”
Major Temple cleared his throat. “You may not be aware of this, Agent Bernstein. MI5—we were known as the SIS then—ran a thorough check on all foreigners when war broke out in Europe. This was 1939. That’s how most of the German spies were found—when there were no records of their leaving Britain, they were rounded up and broken. Many flipped sides, turned into double agents. The rest were hanged.”
“Yeah, I know. But he could’ve left and snuck back in. There are lots of bays and isolated coves here in South Wales and Ireland. Isn’t Ireland known for its smuggling by sea?”
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 12