From Mission To Marriage. Lyn Stone

      “That’s pretty much what they’re doing now, except that I asked them to go ahead and clear the bleachers.” She shifted from one foot to the other, obviously antsy. “I should be over there, doing something myself.” She threw up her hands in frustration.

      “Not today. Not unless they find something.” Clay handed her a soft drink from the cooler on the deck. “Here. If you hover, they’ll be insulted and feel like you think they don’t know what they’re doing.”

      She was already nodding, muttering the word delegate to herself. Clay smiled, knowing that was her weakest point, the ability to relinquish even a little control. But she was working on it.

      Her cousin, Cody, wandered over. “What are you two looking so grim about? Am I interrupting something?”

      “You live to interrupt things,” Vanessa teased. Laughing slyly, she poked his concave chest with her finger. “Look at him. He’s got a coyote-mischief look on his face, doesn’t he? That wicked, sneaky little look!” She poked him again, harder, then handed Clay her drink can. “I can still take you, cuz. Show me what you got!” She backed off and beckoned, taunting him. “Scared of little girls, cuz…zin?”

      To Clay’s surprise, Cody rushed her. She grabbed his arm and, using his momentum, flipped him neatly onto the grass. He rolled to his feet growling in mock anger and rushed her again. They fell in a heap, laughing like loons.

      Clay cleared his throat and looked away, checking to see what her grandfather and the others milling about the yard thought of the horseplay. He didn’t much like it himself. Undignified, he thought. Then he wondered if that was really what he thought. Maybe he just didn’t like seeing her make physical contact with another guy, especially one who seemed to be enjoying it so much.

      Cody Walker was whipcord lean, not much taller than Vanessa and they were pretty well matched physically. Still, Clay didn’t like how the man had grabbed for her as if he meant business. Twice. Because of his own size, Clay was used to pulling his punches when he trained with women. He avoided doing so whenever possible.

      “How about you, cowboy?” she asked him, jumping to her feet, dusting the grass off her jeans. “How’s your hand-to-hand?”

      Clay pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow as he assessed her size. “I’ll pass. It wouldn’t be much of a contest.”

      “Ah, come on, scaredy-cat. Give it your best shot,” she said. “Afraid to get those new jeans dirty? Or are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” She was biting her bottom lip and grinning. “You lead such a sedentary life, Senate! How do you keep your job?”

      Clay grabbed for her, intending to toss her over his shoulder and show her how easily he could overpower and sweep her off her feet.

      She ducked, whirled one leg, hit the backs of his knees and, in a blink, was on top of him with the heel of her hand right under his nose. With a sharp shove, she could have easily embedded the bones of it into his brain. He looked up at her and smiled. “Uncle.”

      With a roll of her eyes, she got up. “Well, you’re no fun at all!” She shook her head in disgust. “And I am not paying any taxes ever again if you’re the best the government can hire.”

      They had drawn quite a crowd. A snickering, pointing crowd. Clay thought maybe he’d better get into the spirit of the thing before he dishonored male agents everywhere.

      He slowly rose to his feet, gave her fair warning, then went for her again. This time, he figured precisely what she would do, blocked her move and had her over his shoulder in less than a second. She cried out as if wounded. Clay quickly set her on her feet to see if he had really hurt her and found himself flat on his back before he knew what had happened.

      She pranced comically around the yard, preening in her victory, bowing low to the boos and cries of “Unfair!”

      Clay was laughing at her antics along with the others, not minding at all that his jeans were grass-stained and the sleeve of his shirt was ripped. “This is worse than touch football,” he complained.