London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  Macknight reached across the table and took back his glass. He refilled it to the rim and then downed it just as quickly. His sullen expression seemed more honest than everyone else’s around her, but her unwanted attraction to him weakened her defenses. She needed to stay far away from him to keep her head.

  She stood up and headed to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going for some fresh air.”

  He rose from his chair and stepped toward her, wearing a weird mixed-emotion type of face, something she could only describe as pissy sympathy.

  She paused. He was the last person she needed at the moment. “I prefer walking alone.”

  She didn’t want to be accompanied by Owen, because she could see through his facade, and it annoyed her. Macknight, on the other hand, had some chip on his shoulder about her existence. A shiver ran through her when he moved in her direction. Not intimidating, but something. She needed more wine.

  Owen waved her outside. “Enjoy. I’ll help Grace with the dishes. We need to catch up.”

  She hesitated.

  “The air will do you some good,” Grace chimed in.

  Macknight held the back door open for her, almost daring her to go through it. Her steps went on autopilot. Fleming trotted along at Macknight’s side, tail wagging.

  He strolled down the path, his hands in his pockets like he had no worry in the world except her. He probably didn’t.

  She took her time walking. The blister from her shoe the day before rubbed against the inside of her sneaker and hurt like hell. Maybe Grace had a bandage back the house.

  He paused and waited for her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” For the blink of an eye, the ice in his eyes melted into the beautiful color of the sea. Then he continued walking.

  She tried not to make eye contact with him anymore because his attention did funny things to her insides. She’d never met anyone like him. Her instincts kept her safe while working as a police officer, but this idiot was scary and overwhelming and at times the most fascinating person she’d ever met.

  He was the one who knew things.

  “Do you think he’s safe?” she asked.

  “Your father? I’m not sure. If he has something the Russians want, they’ll keep him alive until they get it.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t give it to them?”

  “They’ll work twice as hard to locate you. If he loves you like a father should, then your safety will most likely override any other loyalty he has.”

  “What are the chances you can save him?”

  “Low.” His indifference to the situation burrowed into her already weakened emotions. “Let’s keep you safe so he doesn’t die in vain.”

  Macknight’s certainty of such a horrific outcome destroyed any shred of hope she’d had. The sudden loss of her father struck her so profoundly, it was as if someone had ripped her soul out and left only emptiness in its place.

  As the world warped around her new circumstances, her body collapsed. She landed on the ground like she had in the kitchen earlier.

  She sat right there in the dirt and stones and allowed the tears she’d fought so hard to keep at bay roll down her face. Her father would be horrified to see her breaking down over him, but he wasn’t here, and for once she didn’t feel like being the strong one.

  Macknight’s footsteps crinkled dead leaves and small branches.

  “Get up.” If she was looking for a shoulder to cry on, it wasn’t his.

  She ignored him, but he held his hand out, some sort of professional sympathy passing through him.

  “Go away.”

  He never did anything she asked. He reached down and lifted her to her feet. With a gentle touch, he brushed the tears from her cheek. His fingers smoothed her hair, taking a leaf out of it.

  He sighed. “I’ll help you. I promise.”

  His stoic expression seemed to say he was promising under duress. Her gut told her to trust him; her brain said to run away.

  She almost dropped her head onto his shoulder. It would have been a comfortable spot to surrender. His biceps seemed capable of holding off her biggest demons.

  They strolled to a bench a few yards away, and he sat next to her.

  The only part of them touching was the outside edge of their thighs, but the feeling his touch created was deep and warm and right in the middle of her belly.

  Macknight broke the silence a few minutes later. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands were clasped together. “There’s no sugar-coating the danger both you and your father are in. My family died when I was a boy, leaving me quite alone in the world. If he’s all you’ve got, then it makes sense to hold on to him with everything you have.”

  “How did you lose them?” she asked, forcing her mind off her own worries.

  “A boating accident.” Pain was apparent in the low rumble of his words.

  “That’s horrible. Were you there?”

  “I caused it.” He stared at his hands. Darkness clouded his features.

  “How?”

  He didn’t speak. His foot pressed into the soil, grinding something into the dirt.

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You aren’t.” He sighed and sat up. His leg continued to rest against hers. “I wanted our wee sailboat to go faster and tacked too fast. I let out the lines too late. As the boat flipped, the mast slammed into my baby brother’s head. He went under. Mum struggled to save him. My father pulled me ashore but couldn’t get back to help Mum or Sean. They both died, and he drowned himself in alcohol a few months later, joining the rest of my family.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.” He was a boy.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He gave a small snort. “Me, too.” His hand rested on top of hers, both comforting and looking for comfort. There it was again, that certain honesty in his touch.

  He closed his eyes.

  She shut her eyes, as well, and tried hard to imagine herself on the other side of this mess. There was too much fog. She couldn’t see the future. And her past was fading away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Macknight had seen Emma on the ground, a crying mess of a woman, he’d wanted to comfort her, an urge he’d never had before with any female in his life. Even when Lucy went through bad days, he’d had no desire to take her in his arms. She wasn’t the type to cry, but Emma didn’t seem the type, either, which made the tears she shed all the more affecting.

  He traced his fingers over her shoulder, memorizing her features. A heart-shaped face with cheeks the color of a pale pink rose. Her lips sort of matched that color, too, especially her lower lip, which shined in the spot she’d licked when wiping away her tears.

  He hadn’t planned on telling her about his family. That period in his life had been a constant nightmare. His father had disowned him after the accident, telling the police that his older son had killed his mother and brother. It was the truth, and in telling it out loud, he’d made himself a martyr and his son a monster. Macknight hadn’t spoken about the incident in years. Yet it seemed the right thing to do to give Emma some other type of story to focus on.

  Her breathing calmed as they sat together, which eased the storm surrounding him.

  He shut his eyes, resting in the warmth of their touch. He could imagine kissing her. His fingers threading through her long silky hair, her lips tasting sweeter than the finest chocolate. He could be her strength when the world became overwhelming—until she remembered that he was the one who stole her away from her old life. The one who would chase down her father until the end of time if ordered to do so.

  His body tensed. She wasn’t his. He had a job to do, far away from here. The tenderness in his head cooled.

  He sat up, leaving her staring at him. If she’d been anyone else, he might not have cared, but she’d been through so much, and he didn’t want to add more to her anguish.

  “Come on.” He stood, li
fting her with him. The electricity holding them together had also affected his hormones, although a long walk back to the cottage might help ease some of the tension. “We can take the scenic route back.”

  The two-hundred-acre compound provided lots of space to think, walk, and let someone’s guard down. They walked for about a mile until hemmed in by the perimeter fence.

  A large branch blocked the path a hundred meters ahead, and had also taken out a surveillance camera. The mount had been loosened when the branch hit the camera. The entire unit rested on the ground, useless. He called Dawson. “It’s Macknight. When was the last time you guys did a perimeter check?”

  “We check every day.”

  Not likely. From the amount of dirt covering the leaves on the downed limb, it seemed as though the branch had been there for at least a few days. “A camera is down in sector twelve. Get a team out here to put the camera back online then walk around and check for other weaknesses in the perimeter.”

  There were about eighty cameras in the compound. The team had to check them and the integrity of the fencing and the motion sensors every day.

  When he hung up, he glanced around, looking for anything else out of place. The fencing seemed intact, but he wanted to cover a little more ground.

  He led Emma to a walking path, blocked in places by overgrown vegetation. Thick trees encroached on the path, and in the rare sunny areas, there were too many thorns to move easily. This wasn’t a place for a romantic stroll, but he assisted her through a briar patch and over several wobbly stones in a stream. For a single moment, he allowed himself to hold her hand and imagine a time and place where two people could find each other and become bound together in a lifetime of small, joyful moments and easy comfort. Yet the world had never conspired in his favor. It plundered and stole from him all with whom he shared even the smallest scrap of affection.

  “Am I really safe here?” Her concerns had, no doubt, been dropped on her by Macknight’s complaints to Dawson.

  “The guards here are the best. And no one knows about this place except those highest up in the Service.”

  “Are you sure?” More doubts.

  “Positive,” he lied.

  They walked farther into the woods. Here an entire large tree had fallen over a section of fence, pressing it down and smashing through the barbed wire, making an easy ingress into the compound. Emma stared at the spot, her focus more analytical than thoughtful. If she was planning an escape, this would be a perfect place to execute it.

  They continued in silence with his arm draped over her shoulder, fitting together with similar strides and complementing heights. A few strands of her hair rested on his fingertips, as silky as he’d imagined. Their connection sent his thoughts into a thousand directions, as though her presence both healed him and weakened him.

  When they returned to the cottage, Fleming, who had refused to follow them on the path, bounded up and pushed against Emma’s legs until she gave her some attention. She knelt next to the dog and rubbed her belly.

  “Hey, sweetie. Are you sleeping with me tonight?” she asked as she stroked her fur and spoke to her with soothing words.

  For a split second, he was jealous of the dog.

  When Emma stood again, Fleming sat in front of Macknight, looking for more attention until he rubbed her neck. Her wagging tail gave him no confidence in her protection skills.

  Owen was still in the kitchen when they returned. His ear looked like someone had taken a bite out of it. “Good, you’re back. Emma love, I was hoping to find another sucker, I mean potential winner, for poker night. Are you up for it?”

  Emma hesitated. “I have no money.”

  “Macknight will spot you. He’s good for a few quid.”

  She glanced toward the floor. “I was never that good at card games.”

  Owen grinned. “Even better.”

  Macknight laughed. Neither he nor Owen was a fool. A woman who could shoot like her and had spent years at a police station could play cards. She was decent at the clueless act, but Macknight would never underestimate her again.

  “Come on,” Macknight encouraged her. “It’s the only entertainment here. I’ll spot you two hundred pounds.”

  “Two hundred? You guys are serious.”

  She had no idea she was being set up. Poker was one of the best ways to feel out their guests. Could they bluff? Did they have the guts to make the more difficult plays? Or were they conservative?

  “Without money on the table, there’s no pressure,” he said. “Pressure makes the best games.”

  “Okay. What time?” she asked.

  “Come back in about an hour,” Owen told her. “I have to warn you, the enlisted guys are hungry for fatter wallets.”

  She nodded. “I’ll take that under consideration. Thanks.”

  She poured herself a glass of juice and headed to her room. A soft smile graced her face, the first true smile she’d displayed since he’d met her. He smiled in response.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emma loved playing cards, but this was a test. She was no idiot. It would be their perfect opportunity to see how she reacted under stressful conditions. But the same could be said of her opponents’ reactions.

  She changed into a yellow floral blouse and headed to the kitchen. The red table was crowded with five guys—Owen, Macknight, Ian, Toby, and Dawson. Grace, apparently, was not necessary for Operation Figure Out Emma. Each place had a beer and a stack of poker chips.

  “I only have fifty quid tonight,” Toby said to the table.

  Owen waved her over to them, then turned to Toby. “I’ll spot you another hundred and fifty, but if you lose it, I expect payment by the end of summer.”

  His eyes lit up. “You’ll have it back in a few hands.”

  Dawson laughed. “Famous last words.”

  The only seat available was between Ian and Toby. Macknight and Owen must want to observe her facial expressions as she played against them across the table. She slid her beer to Owen, went to the refrigerator, and poured herself orange juice. No way was she getting sloshed on the beer waiting for her. Besides, the way these guys liked to drug the people they were protecting, pouring her own drink made more sense.

  When she returned to her seat, two hundred pounds in chips were on the table in front of her. She glanced at Macknight, who gave her an acknowledging nod. She had no intention of leaving the table without paying him back the entire amount. Somehow, the thought of owing him anything seemed an overwhelming proposition.

  “Welcome to our family poker game.” Toby was shuffling the deck. “Do you know Texas Hold ’em?”

  “Sure.” She smiled at them all, trying hard to not act stupid, just clueless enough to get away with bluffing when she needed.

  “Good, I’ll deal,” Toby replied.

  The first few hands were feelers. They wanted to see how she played, so for most of the early games, she played safe while observing the men around her. Toby tended to tap his fingers when he bluffed, which he probably did way more than he realized. Ian kept his eyes focused on the table. Owen smiled at everything.

  About the fifth game, the pot grew to almost three hundred pounds. Macknight remained relaxed, drinking a beer and chatting with everyone. Owen, too, only he wore a smile and Macknight did not. Ian folded. Dawson and Toby remained in the game with Emma. After a few raises, only she and Owen remained. His smile now included a bit of a forced brow lift. Was he happy about his hand? Confident? Or bluffing?

  When they showed their hands, her full house beat Owen’s straight. He hadn’t been bluffing. Interesting. She pulled the chips toward her. Over five hundred now.

  “I love a woman who can make her own money,” Dawson said, puffing on a cigarette.

  “I don’t,” Toby spoke in an angry slur. “She ended up with three great hands. She’s either lucky, or someone’s handing her the wins.”

  Dawson shook his head. “It’s time for you to step away. You’re drunk and working toward a re
primand for accusing officers of cheating.”

  Toby stood up, grabbing his beer as he rose from the table. “This is such a con.”

  He stormed out of the room, leaving four laughing men and Emma in his wake. A hothead. She’d remember that, too.

  “Now the serious competition can begin,” Owen said, dealing the cards.

  “Doesn’t he owe you?” Ian asked.

  “Not your worry.” He wore his typical devil-may-care grin. The pay difference between young soldiers and MI6 Intelligence Officers was most likely significant. Owen’s graciousness seemed genuine. Maybe he wasn’t always just acting the good guy.

  At the end of the deal, she ended up with a two of hearts and the seven of diamonds. After the flop, she was left with only a two of a kind. Her father had always made her play one or two weak hands per game. It made her bluffing skills stronger, and also—when others realized she’d bluffed—it kept them on their toes when she held stronger hands.

  Macknight bet fifty pounds. His face was unreadable, but he seemed to glance more at Emma than anyone else. Then he did the most ridiculous thing. He winked. That scrambled her thoughts for a second. Those damn blue eyes were hypnotic at times. She blinked away his attempt to screw with her.

  “I raise you one hundred,” Owen responded with a grin. His expression didn’t give away any hint of what his hand might be. He was always smiling, which was as effective a game face as being completely impassive.

  Ian frowned and threw his cards onto the table. Dawson held his for a few seconds, but from the tension in his neck, he was fumbling. She wasn’t shocked when he folded.

  Could she bluff the two operatives?

  She raised Macknight a hundred and ten pounds and returned his wink. Macknight didn’t smile, but there was a trace of amusement in his eyes. He called. Owen folded.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She tossed down her hand, the two sevens on top. Macknight kept his emotions inside. She was so screwed. Then he revealed a pair of threes. He’d bluffed the entire hand.