Seven Days To Forever. Ingrid Weaver

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      And Flynn suddenly realized that the innocent, house-plant-loving, visit-her-folks-on-her-birthday Abigail Locke wasn’t wearing a bra.

      He turned the light aside and scowled. She hadn’t provided the peep show deliberately—she must have been in a hurry to get dressed when the lights had gone out.

      But he was supposed to be the one distracting her, not the other way around.

      Find what you’re looking for, she’d said.

      Well, he sure wasn’t here to look for a pair of breasts, however lush and temptingly displayed they might be. He had to find that backpack, he reminded himself. A green backpack. In a jungle of green houseplants.

      She touched his arm. “You might as well start in the kitchen. The outlets are easiest to get to there.”

      Her touch was soft, hesitant. It was meant impersonally, a practical way of getting his attention in the dark. He felt her warmth through his sleeve, through his skin, right to his bones.

      He couldn’t afford to feel anything. He had a job to do. A kid’s life and the political stability of an entire region was resting on the success of this mission. He had to stay focused.

      The outlets, she’d said. Right. He took a screwdriver from his tool belt, turned around and followed her to the kitchen.

      The receiver in his ear crackled. “O’Toole.”

      Flynn was careful to betray no reaction to Redinger’s voice. The radio had been silent since he’d made face-to-face contact with Abigail. The major had been monitoring everything, of course, but for him to risk direct contact, it had to be important.

      “A car passed one of the roadblocks one minute ago,” Redinger said. “They flagged it as suspicious so we ran the plates. It was reported stolen this morning.”

      Okay. Redinger had to let him know about anything suspicious. This could be coincidence, nothing to do with them.

      “Three male occupants.”

      Three. The LLA operated in cells of three.

      “Sarah turned the parabolic mike on the car. It picked up a snatch of foreign language conversation. She identified it as Ladavian.”

      That clinched it. They were about to have company.

      “The stairwell is getting busy with tenants making their way downstairs,” the major said. “We’ll run interference there when our visitors arrive, but we still can’t risk a confrontation. I estimate you’ve got five minutes tops.”

      So much for the half hour he’d hoped for.

      “Better wrap things up, Flynn.”

      Sure, find the ransom, get it and Abigail out of this apartment before the terrorists dropped in without compromising the mission by blowing his cover.

      Why had he thought he didn’t like things easy?

      Chapter 3

      Abbie pointed out the electric sockets over her postage-stamp-size counter and in the corner above the baseboard, then stepped to the side as Flynn squeezed past her. His sleeve brushed her arm, and she inhaled a scent that reminded her of an April sunrise. Sharp and earthy, restless, filled with the promise of warmth. The fine hairs on her arm tingled.

      She pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to calm the butterflies that were dancing around there. No, they were probably moths. With crusty brown singe marks on the edges of their wings.

      She wished she could blame the tickle of excitement on hunger—she was growing later by the minute for dinner and her surprise party—but if it was hunger, it was a kind that couldn’t be satisfied with food.

      This was a superficial physical attraction, that’s all, a natural reaction to a physically appealing man. After all, she was a woman in her sexual prime, right? But she’d taken a detour down that road and knew better than to trust it. She didn’t want to acknowledge the bump of her pulse each time she looked at him. She should be ignoring his appearance and regarding him with the same polite, professional distance with which she treated the building superintendent or the cable guy or the men who had delivered her new sofa.

      Then why couldn’t she? Was it the sense of intimacy from the semidarkness? Or was it the way Flynn moved? It wasn’t only his appearance that drew her. For a large man, he was light on his feet. He had the total body control of a dancer, making each movement a smoothly coordinated sequence of toned muscles working in harmony. She could easily imagine the way he would be flexing and bulging under that soft flannel shirt and those snug jeans….

      But she shouldn’t. No, she wasn’t going to picture his muscles or anything else. She wasn’t going to watch as he hitched up his tool belt and leaned over to look in the corner under the table…even if he did have the firmest, most perfectly formed set of buns Abbie had ever seen.

      “No luck in here, ma’am,” he said, straightening up. “Where’s your bedroom?”

      The kitchen seemed to shrink as he moved past her. Considering his height and the breadth of his shoulders, she should have felt uncomfortable to be alone in the dark with him, regardless of her personal prejudice against handsome men. Why wasn’t she?

      It must have been the way he had mentioned his nephews. Any man who willingly claimed he liked children couldn’t be all bad. He was a history buff, too, which meant they had something else in common. He took his job seriously, so he was a hard worker and would be a good provider. He was hurrying because he didn’t want to disappoint his parents. Everything he’d said would lead an unbiased, unprejudiced observer to assume he was a nice, stable, family-oriented guy. Exactly the kind of man she’d hoped to marry someday….

      Abbie grimaced, chagrined by the direction of her thoughts. Marriage was on her brain because of today’s date, but she wasn’t pathetic enough to think he really could be a karmic birthday gift, was she?

      He spent even less time checking the outlets in her bedroom than he had in the kitchen. It couldn’t have been two minutes before he moved on to her bathroom. He had to duck his head to get past the spider plant that she’d hung from the ceiling. “Nothing here, either,” he said. “Must be in the living room after all.”

      His pace was increasing—it seemed that he had barely touched those plugs in the bathroom. He must be anxious to finish up here so he could go home, as he’d said. He muttered something under his breath as he ran into the avocado plant again.

      “I’ll have to move the fig tree if you want to check the outlet beside the balcony door,” she said. “The pot would be in the way.”

      “No, I can get it.”

      “Better let me. It’s a bit finicky. It’s been dropping leaves lately, so I have to be careful how I handle it.” She went to his side and leaned down to grab the edge of the pot. It had just started to slide across the carpet when she heard him make a sudden exclamation.

      “Got it.”

      She turned her head. He was crouched beside her, his face level with hers, so СКАЧАТЬ