Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) (6 page)

She felt drab standing beside him. Her sports bra and pink tank top were ancient and frayed at the seams. She’d gotten her racing shorts at a thrift shop five years ago when she and her father were living in Amsterdam. Her running shoes, however, she never scrimped on. She’d bought a few quality pairs in Asia because they’d been cheap. She’d scraped her straight hair into its usual high ponytail. The tip tickled the bare skin between her shoulders, just above the back of her sports bra.

“I thought you were biking this morning, not running,” she said.

A crooked smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I am. But I might try running the last mile. You should be tired enough by then for me to keep up.” He stepped out of her way and gestured for her to go ahead of him to the stairs.

Isabelle remained where she was. “This isn’t your sport, so why are you doing this?”

“To be honest? Because Peter asked me to. He seemed concerned about coyotes.”

She held up her wrist. A red lifeguard whistle dangled from a plastic cord. “I’m safe. If this can clear a pool of a hundred screaming children, a coyote’s ears are going to ring.”

He started to laugh, the sound so low and sexy that heat pooled in her belly. “Seriously? You think a whistle’s going to stop something that’s planning to eat you?”

She had. Now, she wasn’t so sure. “When’s the last time someone’s been eaten by a coyote around here?”

“You don’t need to worry about the last person. You need to worry about the next.” He turned more serious. “I agree the odds are low, but it’s happened. These are wolf crosses, therefore unpredictable, and you, Isabelle Beausejour, have a complete disregard for danger even when it’s staring you in the face. I’m perfectly happy to go running with you, or biking, in this particular instance, to make sure you’re okay.”

She tried to read him, to see if he was telling the truth or trying to scare her. Peter had told her several times she should be careful, especially near the stretches of woodland, so Garrett’s explanation made sense. But despite what he might think, she didn’t have a disregard for danger at all. In fact, when she was around him, the needle on her hazard meter flipped straight to the red zone. That same sense of self-preservation warned there was more to this sudden desire of his to start running again. He was already fit.

Practicality intervened. It said to use this opportunity to her advantage. To find out what he knew about her father, if anything, or at the very least, what he wanted to know. There was no reason she couldn’t have a little fun with it, too.

“Are we still on for yoga?” she asked.

He made a face. “My sister will have my head if I don’t at least give it a try. Thanks for that, by the way. I plan to get even.”

It was her turn to smile. “You’ll love it. I promise.”

He went very still. His expression shifted, growing more intense, taking on the alertness she’d noticed in Bangkok that said he was mentally recording every minute detail about her. She’d done something. Said something. What?

“You have a beautiful smile. You should use it more often,” he said.

No flippant response came to mind. Most men never noticed her smile, or if they did, found nothing about it worth commenting on. She’d had boyfriends, true, although they’d been just that—boys, with no interest in anything but fun—as transient as she was, and too young to think of the future.

Garrett was no boy. This was danger, a kind she wasn’t familiar with, and as he said, it was staring her straight in the face.

The hall was narrow, without a lot of room, and growing smaller by the moment. Minimal light filtered in from the window at the far end. She made a move to slide past him. A hand shot up. It hit the wall beside her head, blocking the way. His eyes, a warm, heated hazel, met hers.

“I’m sorry. That was intended as a compliment. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

He hadn’t. Not in a way she could object to, or begin to articulate, without feeling like a foolish
naïf
.

His eyes dropped to her lips. Seconds later, his mouth covered hers. Sparks of desire showered through her, leaving her lightheaded and breathless. His hand fell to her hip. One of his knees slid between her thighs, pressing her back against the wall. The tip of his tongue brushed her lips. Her fingers gripped the front of his T-shirt, whether to make closer contact and deepen the kiss, or to stay on her feet, she couldn’t be sure.

He pulled back, not saying anything, simply watching her face, a slight frown on his as if he, too, were puzzled by his actions. She untangled her fingers from the soft fabric of his shirt, digging deep for the calm she normally hid herself in, but he was standing too close. She could feel the movement of each muscle, and each inhale and exhale as he breathed. She didn’t want him to know how much he’d surprised her, or how much she’d enjoyed that kiss. She couldn’t believe it, herself.

“What was that for?” she asked. She sounded so normal, when in reality, chaos swelled and alarm bells rang.

“Do I need a reason to kiss a pretty woman?”

Yes. And his was one he’d no doubt carefully considered. She’d do well not to forget that. Whether or not he was CSIS, he wasn’t the type of man to be interested in a woman like her. Not in his sister’s home. Not near her impressionable young children. Isabelle had no education. No impeccable family. Therefore, he wanted something.

So did she. Her father might not be perfect, but she loved him. She needed to know he was safe.

She smoothed the front of Garrett’s shirt with the palms of her hands. Her heart settled back to its usual rhythm. She’d always prided herself on her reserve and ability to remain calm in most situations. She could resist a man who was playing games with her.

“We’re going to be late,” she said.

His eyes filled with humor. “We can’t have that happen.”

He was laughing at her. He made no comment about her avoiding his question, however. Instead, he stepped out of the way so she could pass by.

Chapter Four

Garrett gave her credit. It didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere with her the old-fashioned way. Kissing her—flirting—wasn’t the right approach.

He was willing to give it another shot though, just to be sure.

He wheeled Peter’s ancient fifteen-speed bicycle out of the garage attached to the house and walked it down the driveway. The sun had only half-cleared the cloudless horizon as of yet, and the early morning air was cool and fresh, perfect for running. Dew sparkled on the front lawn. A tiny breath of wind ruffled the silver leaves on the poplars. In the distance, beyond a low hill, the muted roar of machinery told him the farm was already awake and at work.

Isabelle waited for him on the shoulder of the road, swinging her arms, all long, lean muscle and feminine curves.

He liked her, he discovered. The quiet, solid, comforting calmness of her. The unembellished prettiness and subtle sense of humor. The fearlessness. No, not so much fearlessness, as confidence and independence. Sandwiched smack in the middle of it all, however, was a thin layer of vulnerability. Every once in a while, when she thought no one was looking, he’d catch tiny sparkles of it, like bits of broken glass embedded in steel. She brought out every male instinct he owned—a disquieting discovery, because he’d have thought honesty would carry more weight with him.

He reminded his instincts that he’d caught her red-handed trying to sell her passport.

In order to survive,
they whispered back.

At dinner last night, his sister had noticed his interest as more than casual curiosity and taken him aside to issue a warning.
“Don’t screw around with Isabelle, Garrett. I mean it. The kids like her and so do I. Peter does, too.”

So it was unanimous. Everyone liked her. The trouble was, it was too easy to be taken in by conmen—or conwomen. Most people liked them. Garrett had met quite a few, and while Isabelle didn’t have the same kind of charisma, she had…something, and he wasn’t immune to it, either.

“Ready?” he asked her, straddling the bicycle and testing the hand brakes. They were stiff but secure. Kind of like his knees.

She nodded, then started out in long, easy strides, with all the fluid gracefulness of an experienced runner. Garrett followed along beside her, careful to let her set the pace and not push her too hard.

“How long have you been running?” he asked.

“Fourteen years.”

Since she was ten. He hated running, so that boggled the mind. “Why so young?”

She didn’t turn her head to look at him, and kept her words to a minimum, conserving her breath. “Something my father and I could do together.”

“Does your father still run, too?”

“Yes.”

Garrett filed that piece of information away. It might or might not prove useful later on. Every little bit helped.

Any more attempts at conversation died at the first hill. He hadn’t realized how many there were around here. For a long time the only sounds came from the humming of the bicycle tires, Isabelle’s measured breathing, the slap of her shoes’ rubber soles against asphalt, and the occasional car passing by.

Garrett dropped behind her so he could watch her run, purely for pleasure. She held her back straight, her bent elbows chest high. The straight length of chestnut-colored ponytail danced rhythmically back and forth between her shoulder blades as her arms pumped. Her shorts, thin and worn with washings and age, clung to rounded buttocks and exposed a long length of upper thigh. Again, there was no single, standout feature about her that made him enjoy watching her so much. She was beautiful for her simplicity, a perfect daisy, rather than an ornamental rose.

They reached the halfway point in her run and turned toward home. Traffic had begun to pick up as the neighbors, most of whom commuted to the city, began heading for work. By now, Garrett’s thigh muscles were screaming and his butt was sore. It had been a long time since he’d ridden a bicycle—longer, even, than his last run.

When he judged they were almost a mile from the house he put on a burst of speed to get ahead of her, then dismounted and propped the bicycle in the bushes surrounding an oak tree so he could come back for it later. He fell into step beside her when she caught up.

She’d maintained a steady pace from the beginning, but now she slowed.

“You sure about this?” she asked him, a challenge in her eyes.

“Hell, no. But if I sit on that bike any longer, I’ll be eating my meals standing up for the rest of the week.”

She smiled at that, and without further comment, refocused her attention on the road.

He wouldn’t claim running a mile was easy, especially not after biking more than five already, but five minutes in, he began to have faith he might make it. They’d almost reached the driveway, and his hopes remained high, when his hamstring seized. He stumbled, drawing up short, then bent at the waist with his leg extended as he tried to stretch it out.

Isabelle stopped when she realized he was no longer beside her, turned around, and jogged back. “Did you pull a muscle?”

“Tendon, I think.” He had no intention of telling her how bad it hurt—he was no sissy—but his sweating could no longer be blamed on either exercise or the rising heat.

Her cocoa-brown eyes, soft and rich, shimmered with concern. “See if you can walk it out. Here. Let me help.”

Before he could refuse, she’d slipped her arm around his waist and draped his over her shoulders. With her snuggled against him, he lost all interest in arguing the matter.

He limped as far as the front lawn and eyed the door of the house. It looked ten miles away, but he figured he could make it under his own steam as long as he didn’t stop moving. The last thing he wanted was for Cheryl or Peter to catch him like this. He’d never hear the end of it.

“The leg’s much better now,” he lied. “A hot shower and I’ll be good as new.”

He was reluctant to let go of her, however. He still had his arm around her, and her expression as she peered up at him from beneath it said she wasn’t buying whatever he was trying to sell.

He wanted to kiss her again.

“Lie on the grass and I’ll help you stretch it first. Then you can shower,” she said.

All of which brought up vivid images of much more than kissing.

A car drove past. The driver waved to them. They waved back.

“Not a chance,” Garrett replied. “Not out here for the whole world to see.”

Her lips pressed together in a way that suggested she was trying hard not to laugh, but when she spoke, she sounded sympathetic. “You aren’t the first person to ever get a muscle cramp or pulled tendon from exercise, but we could go around the back of the house, if you’d prefer. Can you make it that far?”

He would if it killed him.

When they reached the back yard, Garrett collapsed on the grass. “If you’ve got suggestions for stretching it out, I’m willing to listen.”

She knelt beside him. “Give me your foot.” He lifted it with a groan. She scooted over a few inches so that her hip touched the inside of his sound leg. She placed one hand under the calf of the sore leg, below his knee, the other on his thigh above it, so that the sole of his shoe rested against the flat front of her shoulder. “Now press your foot into me.”