Agent Bride. Beverly Long

      She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing deep. In her head, she counted. By the time she got to two hundred, he was breathing deep and she assumed he was asleep.

      She thought about trying to sneak out. He’d tossed his keys on top of the chest of drawers. All she would need to do was grab them and get out without him hearing her.

      She was good at that kind of thing.

      Didn’t know how she knew that but felt it.

      But where would she go?

      That was the truly terrifying part—to have no idea where her safe place was located. Where her family might be.

      She didn’t trust Cal Hollister but she trusted the outside world even less.

       Chapter Four

      Cal felt the candy bars and chips roll into him as she slid in under the covers. She smelled good. Very feminine. He had the craziest urge to reach out, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

      But he kept his arms folded, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She was scared. Of him. But more so of the men that he’d described. So for now, she’d filed him under the category of lesser evil, which was just fine with him.

      When he’d seen the second Mercedes idling in the lot, hidden to the casual observer, he’d realized that she was in the middle of something big. There was some serious muscle trying to find her.

      He’d considered his options. He could forget what he’d overheard and seen and be on his way. He could go to the cops. Or he could barge his way into this room and try to protect this woman.

      Who was lying to him. Of that, he was confident.

      But he was also pretty sure that she was scared. Really scared. And he couldn’t forget those marks on her wrists.

      When he’d walked in and seen her pile of clothes at the end of the bed, he’d known there was a good likelihood that she might walk out of the bathroom naked. And if he’d been a gentleman, he’d have knocked on the bathroom door, announced his presence and given her a chance to collect herself.

      He’d considered that plan for about half a minute before he’d settled down on the bed, determined to let the cards fall where they may. She’d come out in her towel, which for some twisted reason was even more sexy than full nakedness. She had a compact little body. No taller than a couple inches past five feet, she had gentle curves and one set of really gorgeous legs.

      When she’d walked past him, he’d seen immediately that she was holding something in her hands. But he had to admit, she was good. She’d seemed relaxed and her stride even, unhurried. Confident.

      Perhaps too confident. An operative? It was possible. Since he’d heard the men’s foreign accents, the thought had been nagging at him. Was she part of a foreign terrorist group intent on screwing the United States? If so, even more reason to stick close to her. Was she an innocent, caught up with the wrong people? Then she needed his help.

      He listened to her breathe, knew the exact moment that she let loose and fell asleep. He waited another five minutes, then carefully propped himself up on one elbow. Examined her.

      She slept daintily, with her mouth closed. Yet, she wasn’t totally relaxed. Her jaw was set as if she might have her teeth together. And one hand grabbed the corner of the sheet, fingers clenched tight.

      He was still worried about the lump on her head but she certainly wasn’t showing any signs of concussion. Her speech was clear, her pupils the same. Still, she should probably be checked in the night.

      It was still blowing outside. That would slow the Mercedes Men down. But they would be back. He wasn’t concerned for his own safety. One against four were reasonable odds for a SEAL. But his attention would be diverted by her. And that could prove fatal.

      When she woke up, he was going to force her to come clean. Once he had the story, he’d know what to do.

      He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, remembering that mango was one of his favorite fruits. A little tart. Juicy. Delicious.

      Damn.

      Two hours later, he gently rolled over and bumped into her, his knee to her hip. She shifted but didn’t wake up. He reached up and turned on the light.

      “Hey,” she said. She turned to look at him. “What’s going on?” she asked, her tone sleepy, yet coherent.

      “Just had to use the head,” he lied. He looked at her eyes. Pupils still looked good. Her color was fine. “Go back to sleep,” he said, turning off the light.

      She was quiet for several minutes but he could tell by her breathing that she was agitated. He wasn’t surprised when she suddenly sat up in bed.

      “You did not have to use the bathroom.”

      “I didn’t?” he asked with deliberate surprise. “That’s rather personal, isn’t it?”

      “You woke me up on purpose.”

      “Why would I do that? So I could have this lovely conversation?” He rolled over and gave her his back.

      She waited a full minute before she shoved his shoulder. “You were worried about the bump on my head.” She paused. “That was nice of you,” she added somewhat grudgingly.

      He smiled. “Good night, Stormy.”

      * * *

      SHE LAY IN BED, covers up to her neck, relaxed for the first time. She knew it was because she’d finally let down her guard. Cal had had multiple opportunities to harm her and he’d taken none of them. Instead, he’d disturbed his own sleep to wake her up and make sure that she didn’t have a concussion.

      He was smart, cocky, a little brash. Sexy in his blue jeans and forest-green Henley shirt.

      He reminded her a little of a lounging tiger. Relaxed yet ready to pounce. He moved with quiet confidence.

      She envied that. She didn’t have any confidence right now.

      But maybe by morning. She closed her eyes and let the sleep come.

      The next thing she knew, strong hands gripped her shoulders. Half-asleep, old instincts kicked in. She wrenched her body sideways, attempting to fight.

      But she couldn’t budge her attacker.

      She opened her eyes, saw Cal on his knees, straddling her.

      It was several more terror-filled seconds before she processed what was going on. She forced herself to breathe, to clear her head. He was holding her, not hurting her, simply trying to avoid getting hurt himself. She looked at the bedcovers. They were in a tangled heap, wrapped around her legs.

      “What day is it?” she demanded.

      That surprised him. “It’s Wednesday. Why?”

      She let out a breath. “I needed to know if it was Saturday.”

      “Because?”

      She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But she saw the determined look on his face, knew that he wanted answers. “I had a bad dream,” she said.

      “You think?” he asked, his tone tense. His big body hovered over her, his weight off her but his presence immense.

      While bedcovers and layers of clothes separated them, their closeness was suddenly intensely intimate. And disconcerting as hell to go from something horrible, like her dream, to something that offered a promise of being good, very good.

      Breathe, she told herself.

      “I think you scared ten years off my life,” he said, his tone a little easier now.

      “Sorry,” she murmured.

      He moved fast,