Agent Bride. Beverly Long

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       Chapter Two

      Under normal conditions, having a beautiful woman beg him to take her to a hotel was not an invitation that he needed to give much consideration to.

      Hell, yes.

      And if all went well, a half hour after they’d checked in, neither one of them would even remember it was snowing.

      But there was nothing normal about this. The woman had been lying in the snow in a wedding dress. As he’d approached, he’d seen a slight movement in her arms and legs and had reached out to check for a pulse. She’d responded like a mad dog, throwing a punch and kicking her leg. Her movements had been uncoordinated, as if hypothermia was setting in.

      While he had no formal medical training, every SEAL had the basics. He’d quickly sorted through the options. Moving someone before a full assessment was always a risk. But her extremities all seemed to be in working order, maybe a little jerky, a little awkward. He’d identified the cold as his biggest challenge, decided there was no time to waste and flipped her over to her back.

      Then, even though her arm and leg hadn’t connected with anything vital, he’d been knocked back and just a little breathless.

      She had a stunningly beautiful face. Dark hair. Very dark eyes, almost black. Rich, almond skin that hinted at an ethnicity that was more exotic than his own common German-Irish mix. Maybe from one of the Pacific Islands.

      When she’d screamed, he’d gathered his lust-spiked wits and moved into action. He didn’t think she’d been there long. Dressed as she was, it would have taken less than twenty minutes in these conditions—twenty-degree temps with a thirty-mile-an-hour wind—for her to be in real serious trouble.

      He hadn’t been confident that she could walk, so he’d carried her to the car. Once inside the vehicle, he’d been processing what to do next when he’d seen the marks around her wrists that looked suspiciously as if she’d been tied up.

      It was possible that it had been consensual. What people did behind bedroom doors was nobody’s business. But he’d spent the better part of the past decade in countries where men routinely mistreated women and he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. But when he’d asked, she’d stared at her wrists, as if it was the first time that she’d seen them, seen the damage.

      Then he’d seen the small trickle of blood on the side of her face. He’d been very concerned when he’d felt the lump on her head, which he suspected she’d gotten from connecting with the fence post, and had been relieved when he’d seen that the cut itself was just a slice that would heal quickly.

      He’d pushed aside his concern over her possible mistreatment and dealt with the immediate need of getting her out of her wet clothes.

      When he’d pulled the T-shirt over her head and lowered her dress, he’d done a quick inspection of the rest of her to assess for injuries. Had caught a glimpse of pretty breasts and smooth skin but no other significant bruises or red marks.

      The wedding dress had been wet and heavy and, quite frankly, had knocked him off his stride.

      And oddly enough, it had seemed to have a similar effect on her. She’d ripped the pins out of her veil as if she was attacking a nest of snakes with a garden hoe. Her wet dark hair, free of constraints, had fallen around her shoulders.

      How had a bride ended up in the snowdrift? Where the hell was her husband?

      When he’d picked her up, he’d made a visual inspection of the surrounding area. No footprints besides the ones he’d left. No sign of a vehicle, with the exception of the wide tire tracks on the road, but he was fairly confident that the truck hadn’t stopped. There was no sign of heavy exhaust in the fresh snow that would have been there if a big truck had idled for any amount of time.

      Was it possible that she’d fallen out of the truck while it was moving? That someone had pushed her out?

      None of it made sense and she wasn’t helping. She’d lied about her name. He was pretty sure about that. Had tried to let her know that he knew in a nice way by calling her Stormy instead. When she’d asked his name, he could have reciprocated and lied. He had a half-dozen different aliases that he’d gone by in the past years. Instead, he’d offered up the truth.

      It might have been a mistake but he’d felt the need that one of them should be honest. Why it was important, he wasn’t sure. They were ships passing in a storm. He was offering a helping hand until she could reach out to someone else.

      Which she didn’t seem inclined to do. He’d expected her to look upon his cell phone as an unexpected lifeline but there didn’t seem to be anybody she was interested in calling.

      Odd. To say the least.

      There were probably a couple choices. He could keep driving toward Ravesville and take her to the old house. But given that he didn’t know her story, he wasn’t inclined to want to do that. It was too great of a risk that he might be bringing trouble to his family, to Chase especially, and he was done with that.

      He had enough guilt already.

      He could disregard her instructions that she didn’t need either a hospital or the police and drop her off at whichever he encountered first.

      Or he could turn around, take her back to the Interstate, find the hotel that the waitress had said was just miles down the road and send her on her way.

      That was probably the best option. Now that he’d gotten a closer look at her, he could see the fatigue that shadowed her eyes. He supposed it was a busy time leading up to a wedding.

      Had she gotten cold feet? Was there a groom pacing the aisle in some church, at a loss to understand where his bride might be?

      But it was a Tuesday. Cal didn’t know much about weddings but he was fairly confident that they were usually on a Saturday. Maybe she was simply unconventional. Maybe she and/or the groom worked on the weekends. Maybe they got a better СКАЧАТЬ