Accidental Rebel: A Marriage Mistake Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  The mattress is soft, yet firm enough for support. The kids will sleep just fine in here, but considering the height issue, I’ll have to find an alternative. I could never crash here for eight hours straight.

  There’s a king-sized bed in the room across the hall, but that’s Gwen’s. That redheaded fox who, for some unholy reason, agreed to this madness.

  Also, the woman I barely even know, who’s currently watching my kids so I could rest for a few hours.

  Pulling my legs back on the bed, I roll to my side to sit up, careful so I don’t bash my head.

  Stretching my arms in front of me, I pop both shoulders, then twist my neck till it pops too. Nothing like shifting bones to make a man feel more awake, more alive.

  Movement across the hall catches my attention.

  I can’t see anything, but there’s something, or someone, in there, breaking the stream of sun shining through the window. Gwen, I think, stopping in her room to fetch something before I hear her long, sexy legs carrying her away again.

  I look down with a growl, staring at my badly behaved hard-on.

  Not something I need while I’m a guest here.

  Not something I need any day while I’m trying to get through this without behaving like a complete fucking Neanderthal.

  I shove off the bed and cross the room. More white everywhere. The walls, the wood work, the bunk beds, the doors, and even the carpet is that same ivory tone. The curtains are pale green. Same for the bedding and the framed modern art hanging on the walls in more snow-white frames.

  The room’s a pretty good size, just like the bathroom at the end of the hall.

  I move down the hallway and step into the threshold of the other bedroom. It’s much larger, clearly the master suite, but also painted cloud white. The curtains and bedding in this room are bronze, closer to the color of Gingersnap’s hair – who’s in there pacing back and forth in front of the sitting area near the French doors that lead out to a small balcony.

  I must not have heard her come up again.

  She senses me and turns, doing a double take like she’s not sure if I’m really standing there or not. There goes my dick again, springing to life, hounding me to do the impossible – make a move on this peach tree of a woman I want to shake something furious.

  “You’re awake.” She cringes slightly, her green eyes fluttering. “Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to.”

  “No. I needed to get up anyway.” I run a hand through my hair. “What time is it?”

  She gestures toward the bed, where a digital alarm clock sits on one of the bedside tables. “Almost five.”

  “Damn. I slept longer than I thought,” I admit. “Where’re the kids?”

  “Downstairs. Lauren found my little library and Shane’s busy mastering my smart TV.” She points at me. “Um, actually, Miller...we need to talk.”

  My gut tightens. “What’d Shane do?”

  Her tone says it all. He’s a good kid, but high-strung, a little hyperactive. To someone not used to kids, he can be a handful.

  “Oh, Shane didn’t do anything.”

  Hesitant, I ask, “Lauren?”

  That’d be a new one. I can’t remember the last time little Lauren ever did anything out of sorts, but you never know what this kind of stress can do to a ten-year-old.

  Gwen shakes her head. “Not anything she did either. We had a nice time wandering around the golf course. They found about ten bucks worth of balls they turned in.” She nods her head. “They split it equally.”

  I can’t help but shake my head. “Then what’s wrong?”

  For a second, she glances around, before moving across the room. Stopping at the French doors, she twists the knob. “Out here, please, so they can’t hear us.”

  I cross the room and follow her onto the small balcony that hosts two white rocking chairs and a small table. White again. I’ve never seen so much damn white in my life. “You do know paint comes in a variety of colors, yeah?”

  She frowns, looks at the chairs, then grins slightly. “Not my style, honestly. My mother owns this townhouse. She let an interior designer do everything.”

  I close the balcony door. “Where does she live?”

  “The other side of town.”

  Shit. Extended family. That’s not a good thing when you’re trying to keep a low profile.

  More people finding out we’re here, asking questions, means more room for leaks to the wrong people.

  “And that brings me to what we need to talk about.” She shifts in place, hands hugging the rail, staring off into the distance before she suddenly looks at me. “Miller...why do your kids think I’m their mom? Your pretend wife?”

  Fuck me.

  Whatever else I expected, it wasn’t that. The fact that she’s even asking throttles my pulse, makes me wonder if that bastard lawyer wasn’t as honest as he insisted about all the details being set.

  Calmly, I walk over and lean one hip against the balcony rail, cocking my head. “Because that’s what I’m paying you for, right?” Nodding toward the door, I add, “Your money’s inside, if that’s the concern. Every last dollar stashed away in my bag. You want me to get it now?”

  Her eyes widen. “You mean you’re carrying around like a hundred thousand dollars in that bag?”

  “A hundred thousand?” I try not to snort. The muscles in my neck slowly tighten. I’m paying her boss a hell of a lot more than that.

  She nods but holds up a finger. “Manny said he’d be the one to pay me.”

  “How much is he paying you to do this?”

  Grimacing, she says, “He said he’d negotiate a bigger cut. Something like two hundred thousand?”

  “For you?”

  She nods so fast I think her head might pop off.

  It’d be adorable, watching her all flustered, cheeks going redder than her hair, if I wasn’t so baffled.

  I shift around to fully face her, resting my elbows on the railing behind me. “I’m paying him five times that total. If you’re not even getting half, he’s screwing you.”

  And if he’s screwing her over, what’s he doing to me? I wonder, biting back a snarl.

  She grabs hold of the back of one of the rocking chairs. “Wait, what? A million dollars? A million freaking dollars for a place to stay for a week? Holy...what kind of witness protection thingamajig is this?”

  “Witness protection? Is that what Stork told you?”

  Now, it’s starting to make a sick kind of sense.

  Now, I’m getting royally pissed.

  Nodding, she walks around the chair and sits down like her long, sleek legs can’t hold her up anymore. “Yeah. He said you’re a whistleblower and you needed a safe place for the next week or two.”

  Fucking. Shady. Lawyer.

  Of course he did.

  Cautious, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s still my only hope, I nod slightly. “He’s right about one thing. I am a whistleblower, so to speak, and this is a little like witness protection, but the fee’s not just for a place to stay. It’s all under the table. No official agencies involved.”

  I think about adding they can’t be trusted, not when I’m running from a multinational octopus like Mederva with a third of Congress tucked in its pocket, but don’t. I’m worried I’ll scare her, blow everything if she refuses to cooperate.

  “Then what?” she asks, “And what do you mean 'so to speak?' Are you some kind of criminal? Is someone blowing the whistle on you, Miller?”

  My skin bristles at the irony of her even asking something so fucked up. But if the lawyer left her in the dark, it’s not her fault.

  My brain turns over. Maybe words aren’t the best approach here. I could do better showing her what’s next, convince her she’s already in too deep to back out, or if she does...it might be the end of us. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  She sits up straighter, her brows raised. “Where are you going?”

  “Something you need to see.” I leave the balco
ny and fetch my bag out of the guest room. The whole way, I’m mentally cursing Manny Stork for bullshitting her – or at least conveniently omitting what she’s truly signed up for.

  Returning to the balcony, I sit down in the other chair, open my duffel bag, and pull out the manila envelope Manny gave me.

  There’s nothing in here she can’t see, so I hand her the entire package.

  “Go ahead. Look inside,” I growl, trying not to scare her.

  Frowning, she takes it and opens it up. Glancing at me, she starts pulling things out.

  Passports, driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, birth certificates, and a marriage certificate. Several of them have her name on it with my last name attached.

  Ms. Courtney won’t exist by the end of the day as far as government databases are concerned.

  She’s Mrs. Gwendolyn Rush, and has been for several years.

  “What the hell?” She shuffles through them a second time, her jaw hanging open wider with every document. “No way. These are forgeries. Fakes. Miller...”

  She’s not wrong. They’re fakes, but damn good ones. Six-figure fakes formally endorsed by insiders being paid hefty bribes. I hope to God the rest comes through.

  “Those are all part of this deal,” I tell her. “Same gig that’ll give you half a million dollars, if you don’t let him short you. Manny gets the other half.”

  “Half a million—” She shakes her head, then rubs her temples, like she’s trying to massage the words into her brain to make sense of them.

  “Gwen, look. I didn’t plan it this way. He was supposed to be honest, upfront, make sure you were on board with everything before–”

  I don’t get a chance to finish. She bolts up out of her chair, pain rippling across her sweet face.

  “Before what? What’s going on here? We’re married or...or you’re going to tell me that’s all just a fake too?” Standing up, she backs away from me. “No. No, Miller. I never agreed to anything like this.” Tossing the envelope onto her chair, she adds, “This is ludicrous. Not to mention illegal. I bet I could go to prison alone for the fake passport and Social Security number that’s not actually mine. God.”

  She’s right. This has to be elaborate, creating fake lives right down to the last detail, everything changing except our names so there’s more confusion in the databases.

  Just enough to buy time to get the hell out of the States without anyone noticing.

  Now, I wonder if there’s even a chance that’ll happen.

  There’s not a whole lot I can say, except the truth. “It’s not like I’m having a grand old time either, lady. It’s the only way I can protect my children. After the shit I witnessed...”

  I hold off, stop just short of letting the full horror tear its way out of me.

  I’m angry, afraid, more desperate than I’d like to admit.

  But I also know scaring her more won’t do us a lick of good.

  Gwen stares at me, her green eyes somehow sharper than the flames licking at her cheeks.

  Then her expression softens, and she grabs the envelope off the chair. “Forget it. I’m calling Manny right now.”

  She throws open the door and enters the bedroom. I follow, closing the balcony door, and then the bedroom door after I step into the hall.

  I have no goddamn clue what her idiot boss is going to say, but he’d better not back out.

  We’d barely left Seattle in the nick of time and don’t have a backup plan. I doubt we could slip across the Canadian border without arrangements on the other side, and Canada’s just as vulnerable as the rest of the States for a Mederva kill team to come crashing through our door some night.

  Then there’s no saving us. Just the final heavy thunk of a bullet going through my skull before the demons do the same to Shane and Lauren.

  Fuck.

  I force my lungs to work, greedily sucking in a breath so I can think.

  I have a little time. Absolute worst case, I can throw together a Plan B, as much as I hate it. Hard to believe it could be worse than hating all of this.

  Up till now, I’ve never needed anyone’s help with something like this. I’ve never been so helpless. Even in the war, it was a matter of hunkering down in the rocks outside Kandahar, waiting for the air support to show up and wipe out the insurgent assholes pinning me and my boys down in an ambush.

  This is worse by a long shot.

  There’s no unit. No friends, not with Keith half a world away. No cavalry in the sky.

  Just me, two kids, a shady-ass lawyer, and this wildcat redhead I hope to high hell will show us a shred of mercy.

  “Hey, Dad,” Shane says as I step off the stairs into the living room.

  “Did you have a good nap?” Lauren asks. She’s curled up in a big cream-colored chair with a book.

  Shane is stretched out on a matching colored sofa, remote in hand. “Gwen has the Discovery Channel.”

  “Cool,” I say to him before nodding at Lauren, “Yeah, I did. I hear you found golf balls and made a little coin.”

  “Sure did!” Shane answers. “Got ten bucks for them. We split it.”

  “Sounds fair,” I say. “You guys getting hungry?”

  I know I am. That paper-thin burger I scarfed down hours ago is long gone.

  “Is Gwen still upstairs?” Lauren asks.

  “Yeah, she’s on the phone.” I try to ignore the outcome of that call as I walk into the kitchen to check the cupboards, wondering if a trip to the store will be in order.

  It takes a lot more to feed four people than one, and Stork hardly gave her any notice we were coming.

  Hopefully, I’ll find enough here to throw together something for supper.

  Yes, I know the dangers of going grocery shopping while hungry. With hungry kids, too, it could be disastrous.

  Gwen might be calling her boss to tear his ear off over this deal, but I’m moving forward, assuming we’ve got safe harbor. At least for tonight.

  The cupboards and fridge are as neat and organized as the rest of the house. Almost as sparse, too.

  There’s a bag of rice, little glass bottles of seasonings, a bag of frozen shrimp in the freezer plus some garlic bread. A quick scan shows several different salad kits in the fridge.

  My wheels turn, trying to figure out what I can throw together. Seeing a coconut water tucked in the back of the fridge does it. Reminds me of Oahu, where I spent some time doing training exercises back in the Army.

  “Garlic scampi and rice sound good?” I ask the kids, even though there really isn’t another choice if they say no. I’m sure they won’t. They both like scampi, especially baked with rice and plenty of garlic. An old North Shore favorite a couple guys who were from Hawaii taught me how to cook.

  “Yum,” Lauren says, tilting her little face back happily.

  “Sure,” Shane chimes in. “I’m starving!”

  “You’re always starving,” Lauren says, gently ribbing him for being every bit the growing boy.

  I leave them to ramble on about their appetites while I find bowls and bakeware, then a colander for the shrimp. They’re fresh, so deveining them should go fast after they defrost.

  “Daddy, can I help?” Lauren asks, having left her book in the living room, already washing her hands in the sink.

  I smile.

  “You can mix up the salads.” I check the water I’ve put on the stove for the rice, seeing it’s coming up on a rolling boil.

  She digs around in the fridge. “Hmm, looks like...two bags of Caesar? We all like that, and Gwen must too since it’s in her fridge.”

  “Right,” I agree, breaking the tails off my now defrosted shrimp in the sink. “You see anything more fun than golf balls back there today?”

  She grins and tells me about the wildlife while we assemble the meal. A red fox, several frogs, and a garter snake all came out while they searched the grounds for golf balls. She mentions how nice the clubhouse was, along with the man who paid them for recycling the balls.r />
  By the time Gingersnap comes downstairs, I’ve got the rice and shrimp ready. Every last shrimp is slathered in crushed garlic and seasoned butter, simmering away in the oven, and Lauren has the salad in a bowl, ready to add the dressing once the scampi’s done.

  Not bad for improvising.

  Still, I clear my throat, side-eyeing Gwen. “Didn’t mean to raid your kitchen. The kids were hungry, and my stomach started growling like a bear. Figured the least we could do tonight is make us all some dinner. My thanks for putting us up.”

  She stands at the edge of the kitchen and gives me a subtle nod. “No problem. Thanks.”

  Shit. I wonder what that really means in the lexicon of a woman who must be hair-on-fire freaked after checking in with her pants-on-fire boss.

  I still wouldn’t mind introducing my fist to Stork’s face. But I can’t knock out the clown who might be our only ticket to freedom.

  “Dad’s making shrimp scampi,” Shane tells Gwen. “It’s really awesome.”

  She smiles at Shane. I study her closely, deciding it looks real. I hope it’s real.

  “Smells delish,” she admits, stepping fully into the kitchen.

  The muscles in my neck tighten. I can’t tell by her expression if her phone call with Stork went the way she wanted or not.

  Her smile could just be show for Shane, just to keep the peace, or to hide how tangled up she is inside. Is she trying to figure out how to kick us out gracefully without upsetting the kids?

  “I made some Caesar salad.” Lauren glances up at me. “Should I set the table now, Daddy?”

  I keep my eyes trained on Gingersnap. “Sure.”

  She doesn’t meet my gaze, just steps around me and opens a cupboard.

  “If it’s even half as good as it smells in here, you guys did a great job with dinner,” she says while lifting down a stack of plates.

  She doesn’t sound pissed, anyway. I relax a notch.

  Still looking for clues about how the call went, I take the plates from her hands. “I hope you like garlic. These shrimp are one with it now and forever.”