Red Clover Inn

Greg shuddered. “Just the thought of diving gives me hives.”

“That’s your answer, then. If thinking about diving bothers you, then it’s the thinking that’s the issue, not the diving itself.”

“It’s the diving.”

She couldn’t resist a smile. She had to admit she was enjoying their banter. It was harmless, a little fun before she retired for the night. Maybe he’d sized her up right after all. “I’ve been diving since I was a kid,” she said. “I guess it never occurred to me to get hives over it. I’m fascinated by the world’s underwater heritage. There’s so much to explore and learn.”

“One of our last frontiers,” Greg said, obviously not that interested. “I guess space is another. I don’t like the thought of space suits, either. I like breathing real air.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him about the definition of real air. “It’s hard to believe Samantha ended up a couple of hours from the nearest salt water, but she loves her adopted town in Massachusetts. England is perfect for her wedding, though, since most of her family lives in the UK. She says it’s going to be beautiful tomorrow. Apparently the wisteria is in full bloom.”

“What’s wisteria?” Greg asked.

“It’s a flower.”

“Then it’s not contagious. Good.”

Charlotte sighed. “Very funny.” She started to rise. “Good to meet you, Agent Rawlings. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Greg placed a hand on her wrist, sending unexpected currents through her. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Have another glass of wine. You were here first. I’ll go find Brody. I remember when he got his first assignment. He was green as a grass snake. Now he’s in his prime, and I’m—Wait, where the hell are we?” He glanced around him, as if he were confused. “Some twee English village, right?”

Charlotte observed him. He was entertained, unconcerned—and deliberate, she decided. Diplomatic Security Agent Greg Rawlings might be exhausted and he might be trouble in many ways, but he wasn’t inebriated. He was stone-cold sober. Her initial impression of him had been part right and part wrong.

Mostly wrong.

She gave an inward groan, not so much embarrassed as annoyed with herself. But wasn’t being wrong about people par for the course for her these days?

Par for the course with her and men, she amended silently.

She did much better with the ghosts she found underwater.

“I have to unpack,” she said politely, firmly, as she stood. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

This time, Greg didn’t stop her, and she slipped out of the party room, down the hall and out to the bar. More family and friends had decided to stay overnight than expected, and Charlotte had offered to stay in one of the pub’s half-dozen guest rooms, freeing up space at the relatively small wedding hotel.

A room at the pub also allowed her to get her bearings before tomorrow.

Weddings.

She took a breath and sat on a stool at the bar. A quiet drink without any back-and-forth with a federal agent and then she’d collapse into bed. By daylight, she’d be ready to pour herself into her maid-of-honor dress. The long train ride from Edinburgh to Oxford and then a cab to the small English village where her cousin was getting married had left her drained. She’d had too much time to think. Inevitably, her mind had drifted to thoughts, questions and regrets best avoided on her way to a wedding.

“Scotch,” she said to the tawny-haired barman. “Smoky and expensive.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“We are celebrating that I’m here for my cousin’s wedding tomorrow, alone, single and in one piece.”

The barman poured a pricey single malt and set the glass in front of her. “Cheers, then.”

Charlotte held up her glass and smiled. “Cheers.”

* * *

Brody Hancock planted a fresh beer in front of Greg and sat across from him. “Do I need to go find that woman and apologize on your behalf?” Brody asked.

Greg picked up the beer. “That woman is Charlotte Bennett, Samantha’s cousin and her maid of honor.”

“Even more reason to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

“You tell me. I’m going to make an educated guess and say you were jerking her chain.”

“She started it by assuming I was drunk.”

Brody groaned. “That’s so third grade, Greg.”

“I know. It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“For you, maybe.”

Greg didn’t argue the point with his friend and colleague. Brody was a good-looking guy in his midthirties, dressed for the night in a suit, probably because it was his brother-in-law who was getting married tomorrow.

“You’re doing some assuming of your own,” Brody added. “You don’t know what Charlotte was thinking.”

“I do. She told me. She’s blunt. She threatened to disarm me.” It was an exaggeration and Greg knew it. “I swear.”

“How was she going to disarm you, Greg?” Brody asked, sighing.

“I don’t know. It could have been interesting to find out.”

Brody shook his head. “Don’t make me regret getting you invited to the wedding.”

“I won’t. Relax. That’s what I’m doing. Relaxing.”

“Sure, Greg.”

He realized his eyelids were drooping. Damn, he was beat. He’d been going all out for months. A wedding in the English countryside was just what he needed. “Charlotte’s uptight and was looking for a distraction,” he said, confident in his assessment. “Fretting about me gave her something to do. If anyone needs to apologize, it’s her.”

“Somehow I doubt she’s the one who needs to make apologies.”

“Charlotte Bennett can hold her own. Trust me. And it’s Charlotte, by the way, not Char or Lottie or anything else. Charlotte.”

“And you’re an ass,” Brody said with a grin.

“I do a good imitation of one, anyway.” Greg considered his encounter with tomorrow’s maid of honor. “She’s hiding something. I can tell these things.”

“You’re good, Greg, but even you aren’t a mind reader. Enjoy your beer. We don’t have to worry about getting in a car and driving on the wrong side on the winding country roads.”