Red Clover Inn. Carla Neggers

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 feel like a dumbass. It hadn’t worked, and they’d become friends, drinking expensive Scotch to nonexcess and deliberately mispronouncing one booze name after another.

      Greg debated asking Charlotte to join him. Probably not a good idea.

      One sip into his Scotch and his fatigue blanketed him, suffocating him. He should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t, instead distracting himself by teasing an obviously smart, tough marine archaeologist.

      He could have tackled the fatigue, fought it off and forced himself up to his room, but he took another sip of Scotch.

      And he was done.

      Toast.

      His weariness took him under. He didn’t fight it. There was no reason to fight it. Everyone around him was safe, and he was off duty, secure, in a quiet English pub.

      Next thing, he felt something frigid-cold and wet on his neck and then rolling down his back. He bolted upright and noticed Charlotte had moved onto the bench next to him.

      He shivered, the wet cold reaching the small of his back. “That was too cold to be your tongue.”

      “It was ice.”

      “They have ice here?”

      “I asked for ice for my glass of water. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t see you pass out.” She dumped the rest of her handful of melting cubes into his Scotch. “You’re done drinking.”

      “You just ruined the rest of my excellent single malt.”

      “That was the point. Come on. I’ll help you up to your room.”

      He debated protesting, but instead he stifled a yawn, his eyes half-shut. The ice had given him a jolt but he was still struggling to stay awake. He could have made it up to his room on his own, but damn. Having attractive, sexy Charlotte Bennett help him? An opportunity not to be missed. He figured he couldn’t go wrong.

      “I am feeling a bit woozy,” he said.

      “I wonder why.”

      “I haven’t had too much to drink.”

      “Doesn’t matter.” She slid an arm around his middle. “Up you go.”

      She inhaled sharply as she tightened her hold on him. He liked to think it was because she was reacting to being in such close contact with him, but maybe he smelled or something. He offered no resistance as she helped him to his feet, using her legs for leverage. He was a big guy but she clearly knew what she was doing. Another good tug, and she had him on the other side of the table, near the base of the stairs.

      “Not bad,” he said.

      “I’m used to dealing with inebriated divers.”

      “You’re a tough cookie, aren’t you?”

      She gave him a steely look, the kind he’d given countless times in similar situations. “You need to call it a night, Agent Rawlings.”

      “You aren’t going to dump more ice down my back, are you?”

      “Would it help get you up the stairs to your room?”

      “There are better ways.”

      Her cheeks reddened but it could have been exertion. Probably unhelpful that he was thinking in physical terms, but maybe she was, too.

      “You’re going to have to help me,” she said. “I can’t carry you.”

      “No piggyback ride?”

      “Not unless you...” She shook her head. “No. No piggyback ride.”

      She steadied her arm around him and edged him to the stairs, then took his right hand and planted it on the rail. He glanced at her. “You’ll catch me if I fall backward?”

      “I’ll get out of your way.”

      “Heartless.”

      “Practical. We’d both stand a better chance of not getting hurt.”

      He looked up the steep, narrow stairs and grimaced. “Sure you can’t carry me?”

      “Positive.” Charlotte smiled with understanding. “Might as well be the last few yards climbing Everest, huh?”

      “But it’s not. It’s a set of stairs in an English pub.”

      “This is true.”

      He made no comment. As he started up the stairs, she eased her arm from around him and placed her hand on his hip, obviously hoping that would help stabilize him. “Are you sure you can manage?” she asked him.

      “Absolutely.