Red Clover Inn

Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

One (#u16f08574-078b-5cce-a246-43c3ae6c6223)

The Cotswolds, England

Charlotte Bennett was no stranger to trouble but never had she encountered it in the form of a US federal agent who was exhausted, somewhat inebriated or both. “Agent Rawlings.” She paused, debating the wisdom of continuing. “Are you by any chance armed?”

“Armed with a smile.”

And smile he did, as if to prove his point. It was a casually sexy smile, his turquoise eyes crinkling at the corners. Charlotte didn’t know when and where a federal agent was supposed to carry a weapon, but certainly not while drinking beer at a party the night before her cousin’s wedding in a quiet village in England. She couldn’t see a weapon but he could easily have one under the jacket he wore over a charcoal-gray lightweight sweater. He had ultrashort-cropped dark auburn hair and looked as if he knew his way around weapons of all kinds.

“No worries, okay? I’m not in the UK on official business. You’re safe with me.”

He was amused. She could tell. She’d arrived at the party late and had chosen a small table by a window slightly open to the damp June evening. She’d had exactly two sips of her wine, a lovely, chilled white, when he sat next to her on the cushioned bench, placed his near-empty beer glass on the small table and introduced himself as Greg Rawlings. Charlotte had recognized his name as the federal agent Samantha, her cousin whose wedding was tomorrow, had mentioned was a last-minute guest.

Charlotte took her third sip of her wine. “You know, I didn’t invite you to join me.”

“You can kick me out if you want,” he said with a yawn. “I’ll go quietly.”

He didn’t look as if he did anything quietly unless it suited him. “Agent Rawlings—”

“Call me Greg. What’s your name?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Bennett.”

“Ah. Another Bennett. Live here or in the US?”

“I’m American but I live in Scotland.” For now, she added silently.

“Well, Lottie, you need to kick back and relax.”

He was having fun. Definitely. She wanted to have fun but she wasn’t in the mood, at least not yet. Once she saw Samantha and got into the spirit of the wedding festivities, maybe. But she didn’t like weddings.

“It’s Charlotte,” she said. “Don’t call me Lottie again.”

Greg Rawlings smiled, his eyes half-closed. “Or...what?”

He knew he was sexy. Totally knew it. She returned his smile. “I promised my family I wouldn’t get in a bar fight tonight.”

“You’ve been in bar fights, Char?”

“Not in a while. And Char isn’t going to work, either. Charlotte. That’s it.”

“As in Charlotte’s Web?”

“No. As in my parents liked the name.”

“Is Charlotte the spider? I don’t remember. I guess it makes sense she’d be the spider, or why would it be her web?”

Charlotte didn’t respond. She watched him fight back another yawn. Maybe he wasn’t inebriated—maybe he was just tired. He’d sat at her table without invitation, but there weren’t enough tables for the number of guests, deliberately so, she knew, because the idea behind the party was for guests to mingle ahead of tomorrow’s wedding. She’d assumed he’d had too much to drink and had picked an argument with him.

Maybe argument was too strong. She’d walked into the Cotswolds pub and found her way to the private-function room intensely aware she needed a distraction. She’d hoped a glass of white wine would do the trick. Then enter a fit, muscular federal agent with attitude.

Maybe he needed a distraction, too. Sparring with her certainly didn’t intimidate him or even seem to bother him. One of those guys who always thought he had the upper hand. She supposed it was a strength in a federal agent, if not necessarily in a drinking mate.

“What are you drinking?” he asked her.

“Chardonnay. What about you?” Charlotte nodded to his almost-drained pint glass. “What were you drinking?”

“Implying I’m done for the night?”

“You should be.”

He grinned. “You’re blunt.” He sat up straighter. “Okay. I was drinking Heineken, the last of which is in the bottom of my glass and warm. My buddy Brody is supposed to be fetching me another pint.”

“Brody being...”

“Brody Hancock. He’s the tall guy who isn’t bringing me my beer.”

Charlotte drew a blank but had a feeling she should know the name Brody Hancock. “Is Brody a federal agent, too?”

“He’s a London-based Diplomatic Security Service agent for the US State Department recently married to the only sister of tomorrow’s groom. You know about that, right? The wedding tomorrow? You’re not a gate-crasher, are you?”

“I know about the wedding. I’m not a gate-crasher.” More like the opposite, she thought. The one who ran from weddings. “Are you a DS agent, too?”

He frowned. “Didn’t I say that?”

“You acknowledged you were a federal agent when I recognized your name. I didn’t know what kind of federal agent. We didn’t get to the details once I realized you might be armed.” She had a feeling she was digging a deep, deep hole for herself. “Why don’t I find Agent Hancock for you?”

Greg sank against the back of the bench they shared. “That’s okay. He’ll find me.”

“I hope so,” she said half under her breath.

“You’re blunt, Charlotte. Relax. It’s the night before a quiet English wedding.”

As if that should reassure her. “Bad things often happen the night before weddings.”

“That’s a dark view,” he said, clearly amused. “Let’s start over. I will call you Charlotte and you will quit worrying about whether I’m armed and inebriated. Okay? Hitting the reset button...” He paused to shake off a yawn. “What do you do for a living, Charlotte?”

“I’m a marine archaeologist. I’m Samantha Bennett’s cousin.”

“Our bride-to-be. Blood relative, then?”