Red Clover Inn. Carla Neggers

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СКАЧАТЬ wedding—especially Justin Sloan, since he was the groom. Being the youngest and only girl, Heather was another one who gave as good as she got. Brody had never intimidated her. Neither had the animosity between him and her older brothers that had gone back to their teen years. All water over the dam now. On Greg’s one and only visit to Knights Bridge, Brody had just returned to his hometown after more than a decade and he and Heather Sloan were doing the dance, wondering if they were meant for each other. But they were. Greg had seen it right away. Love for them had come fast and fairly easily, and he was certain it would last.

      Heather set three glasses of water on the table. “Figured it’s time for us to switch to H2O,” she said cheerfully as she sat next to her husband.

      Greg thanked her but stuck with his beer. “We haven’t had much chance to talk since I got in from parts unknown. How’s married life for you two lovebirds?”

      “It’s perfect,” Heather said without hesitation.

      Brody smiled. “Just what I was going to say.”

      “We’re loving London,” she added. “Having my family here for the wedding is great. Helps with any homesickness.”

      “You’re not down on the farm anymore,” Greg said.

      “We have a construction business. My parents live in an old farmhouse, but it’s not a working farm.”

      “It’s an expression, Heather.” Greg got a kick out of her. “I’m glad you two are happy. I said you would be, didn’t I?”

      “You’re always right, Greg,” Heather said, then drank some of her water.

      He laughed but he could feel the rawness of his exhaustion.

      Brody lifted his water glass. “Are you going to pass out here, Greg? You look like you need toothpicks to keep your eyes open.”

      “Here would be good but Samantha’s marine archaeologist cousin would probably sic the local cops on me.” He abandoned his beer barely two sips into it. “I’ll stumble up to my room.”

      “Want me to spot you?” Brody asked.

      “No.” Greg snorted as he got to his feet. “Spot me. Hell.”

      He did stumble, though. Imperceptibly, he thought, but there was no denying it. He didn’t give a damn. He’d had a rough few months since crawling off his deathbed and going back to work.

      How close was I to dying, Doc?

      Close.

      Seconds? Minutes? I want to tell my ex-wife.

      His doctor hadn’t thought that was funny. Laura wouldn’t have, either, but Greg would never tell her. Divorced or not, he was the father of their two teenage children. She’d often grumbled that life as his wife was like being widowed, but she had never wanted him to die for real. Decent of her, considering she’d had a point. He’d left her high and dry too frequently during their marriage. They’d married young and had two kids right away, and they’d never been easy as a couple, not like Heather and Brody. Finally, they’d accepted they no longer were a couple and it was time to move on, end their marriage.

      It hadn’t been Laura’s fault. It damn sure hadn’t been the kids’ fault.

      They lived in Minnesota near Laura’s family and liked cold weather. Andrew and Megan had no idea what their father’s life was really like. They’d see a Diplomatic Security agent in a movie and think that was it. But it wasn’t.

      Greg took the blame, every bit of it, for the distance between them, but he knew, at least intellectually, blame and guilt got him nowhere. He wasn’t going to let them be an excuse to keep his distance, prevent him from living the life he wanted to live.

      He swore under his breath.

      No way was he going to bed with all that rolling around in his head. A good night’s sleep would help, but it would elude him if he didn’t get a grip first. His demons were part of the reason for his admitted exhaustion.

      He walked down the narrow hall to the bar, managing not to fall on his face. He spotted Charlotte Bennett at the bar and grinned at her when she fastened her dark eyes on him. She had creamy skin and thick, rich brown hair that hung in waves to just above her shoulders, and she wore a simple, close-fitting black dress and strappy black heels. Greg would bet a million dollars that her shoes were killing her feet, but she’d never show pain. Not the type.

      He sat in a booth. It had a worn wood bench. No cushion. Aches that hadn’t bothered him in months gnawed at him now. It’d been four months since he’d defied his doctors’ predictions and had made a full recovery and returned to duty after being wounded in an ambush late last fall. He’d seen a similar determination in dark-eyed Charlotte, but maybe he’d only been projecting.

      The pub had low ceilings and a large open fireplace, unlit given the warm evening. A votive candle glowed on his table. The place was owned by Ian Mabry, a former RAF pilot engaged to Alexandra Rankin Hunt, an English dress designer with a shop down the street and tangled connections to little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.

      Greg ordered Scotch. “Whatever you recommend that doesn’t cost a fortune,” he told Mabry, a good-looking sandy-haired guy who didn’t seem to miss the RAF. Greg wondered if he’d miss his job when the time finally came to call it quits. He wanted that moment to be on his own terms, not a bullet’s terms. But he wasn’t contemplating his past or future this weekend, he decided. Especially not tonight, with Scotch on the way.

      He settled back and observed tomorrow’s maid of honor. He didn’t know much about the Bennetts. Samantha’s grandfather, Harry Bennett, had earned an international reputation as an adventurer and explorer when he’d ventured to the Antarctic under dangerous conditions. He and some in his party had almost frozen to death. Greg gave an involuntary shiver. He figured he’d done well by not freezing to death in Minneapolis.

      Laura, his ex, wouldn’t think that was funny, either.

      No wonder they hadn’t been a “forever” match.

      Greg focused on eyeing the curve of Charlotte Bennett’s hip under her sleek outfit.

      “Do you wear dresses very often given your work as a diver?” he asked, not sure if she’d heard him. Her dagger look as she swiveled to him ended any doubt. He grinned. “No, huh? Did you have that one hanging in your closet or did you buy it special for tonight? Borrow it? Wait. Let me guess. You don’t have a closet.”

      “I’m not indulging you.” She swiveled back to her drink, giving him her back again.

      “That’s not apple juice you’re drinking, is it?”

      No reaction. Greg decided to shut up before Ian Mabry tossed him out for being an ass. The pilot/barman delivered the Scotch himself, a smoky-but-not-too-smoky single malt from, according to Mabry, an Islay distillery.

      “So it’s Eye-la not Iz-lay,” Greg said.

      Mabry smiled. “I have a feeling you knew that.”

      The Englishman withdrew before Greg told him yeah, he’d known. About a decade ago he’d mispronounced Islay in front of a UK-security type who’d relished trying to make him СКАЧАТЬ