Kitabı oxu: «Secrets In Texas»
“Why’d you go into law enforcement?”
Normally Angel would have answered with a well-rehearsed spiel. But she knew it wouldn’t fly with Matthew. He was too perceptive. “A cop helped me once when I was in trouble. I guess I admired her and I wanted to help other women like me.”
“What kind of woman would that be?”
Angel refused to allow anyone but her very close friends and her superiors to know she’d ever been that vulnerable. A victim.
“You know all you need to know about me, Matt.” She stood and headed for the bathroom. Stopping in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “Except that you really don’t want to get in my way.”
“What about the game?”
Angel wasn’t sure if he referred to the Scrabble game she’d abandoned or the dangerous personal game developing between them.
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed my first romantic suspense, The Secret Wife, I suspect you’ll become immersed in Secrets in Texas. As the titles suggest, both books involve (family) secrets. They also contain twists and turns and complex emotional entanglements.
The idea for Secrets in Texas was born of news articles I read about the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—polygamous sects prevalent near the Arizona/Utah border, among other places.
I contemplated how hard it must be for men and women raised in this culture to adjust to living in the outside world. So I gave my hero, Matthew Stone, just such a challenge. I tested him to the limit and sent him back to the polygamist group, this time with a faux wife who is anything but submissive. Problem is, there are secrets in Angel Harrison’s past that have her wondering if she might be more vulnerable than she thinks.
While I did research fundamentalist sects, I didn’t try to factually recreate their lifestyle in my book. Instead, I created my own sect, Zion’s Gate.
Please join Angel and Matthew on their journey of discovery at Zion’s Gate.
Yours in reading,
Carrie Weaver
P.S. Carrie enjoys hearing from readers by e-mail at www.CarrieWeaver.com or snail mail at P.O. Box 6045, Chandler, AZ 85246-6045.
Secrets in Texas
Carrie Weaver
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With two teenage sons, two dogs and three cats, Carrie Weaver often feels she lives in a state called Chaos (not to be confused with Dysfunction Junction, a place she’s visited only once or twice). Her books reflect real life and real love, with all the ups, downs and emotion involved.
This book is dedicated to my editor, Laura Shin.
Thank you for having confidence in me even
when I sometimes don’t.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
ANGEL OPENED HER eyes, trying to focus. What started as a fuzzy recollection of violence morphed into full-blown terror.
She stifled a whimper as she rolled onto her stomach.
Must be quiet. She knew her survival depended upon it.
Drawing her knees beneath her, she bit her lip as her legs slid in opposite directions. It was like a grotesque combination of Twister and Slip ’N Slide. Only the splotches were red instead of an assortment of colors, and the liquid was too slimy for water.
It was blood. Hers? His?
Her knees stabilized, gaining traction. Slowly, deliberately, she placed a palm on the once-pristine tile floor. Then she put her other hand next to it.
Sweat rolled down her face. This should have been so simple.
But nothing had been simple for a long time.
She bit back a hysterical chuckle.
Must be quiet.
By slowly tilting her head, she was able to survey much of the kitchen peripherally without expending precious energy.
Kent wasn’t in the room.
She had already registered that fact on a subconscious level, but caution had served her well in the past. Otherwise she’d be dead.
Inching forward, she focused solely on the cordless phone that had skittered beneath the table. Frowning, she tried to remember holding it, making a call.
But it was like a recurring nightmare. The phone was just out of her reach. And so was the memory.
Angel smiled grimly.
The phone might be out of reach, but the butcher knife wasn’t. It was a foot or two away, probably dropped in haste.
She forced back the hot saliva pooling on her tongue as she moved forward and grasped the handle. It was slick with blood from hilt to tip. The blade was coated with the stuff. And she was pretty sure it was her own.
Bones crunched. Pain radiated up her arm. The knife dropped from her numb fingers.
It took precious seconds for reality to register. A size-twelve work boot pinned her wrist to the floor. Jeans brushed the tips of the brown boots, jeans she’d laundered so carefully earlier that morning.
Angel’s scalp burned as her head was jerked backward. Her long, dark hair had once been her pride and joy. Now it was simply a handy leash, snarled in Kent’s fist, as he forced her to look evil in the face.
She struggled to get away, an effort so ineffectual it made him smile. A cold, triumphant smile that told her she would die today.
The sound of splintering wood barely penetrated, as did the shout to freeze.
That confused Angel. It was a bright, beautiful Sunday afternoon. No frost or snow on the ground.
But something about that weather report seemed to enrage Kent even more. Or maybe it was the jumble of DPS officers arriving uninvited into his home.
He glanced at the cordless phone lying a few feet away. Fury burned in his eyes.
“Bitch.” He swung her just far enough away so he could reach the knife and still keep her within his grasp.
She saw the knife arc into the air, then sweep toward her.
Waited for the fatal thrust that never came.
Flinched as shots echoed in her sunny kitchen.
Stumbled to the floor, still tethered to Kent. Saw him writhe once, twitch, and then lay still.
Sighed when her hair was cut from Kent’s grip. And focused on the hank clutched in her husband’s fist.
Even in death, Kent had refused to let her go.
CHAPTER ONE
Nine years later
Brownsville, Texas
ANGEL HARRISON squared her shoulders and entered the conference room. One look at her new assignment and she wanted to puke—the man and all he represented sickened her. But he was one of the good guys now, she reminded herself.
Or so she was told.
Realizing her supervisor waited for her to make nice, she forced herself to step forward and shake the visitor’s hand. She also forced herself not to break all twenty-seven bones in his pale hand. Just apply enough pressure so he knew she meant business. “I’m Agent Harrison.”
To his credit, he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t try to one-up her by resorting to force. He just held her gaze, his green eyes serious as he acknowledged her greeting. “Ma’am. I’m Matthew Stone.”
“So when are we getting married?”
He shrugged, not a golden hair out of place on his conservative head. Nodding toward the suit and the ranger entering the conference room, he said, “Whenever they decide.”
To give him credit, he was a cool one. And better-looking than his photos suggested. Definitely not Brad Pitt-perfect, more like Matthew McConaughey masquerading as an overgrown, utterly serious Eagle Scout. His crooked nose was the only feature out of the ordinary.
Angel’s inspection was interrupted by the ranger, Javier Perez. He was legendary in the law-enforcement community as tough but fair.
Ranger Perez took the lead while the man in the suit positioned himself in an unobtrusive corner. He had federal agent written all over him.
Angel struggled to keep her expression impassive as her supervisor went to fetch coffee. Women of her rank shouldn’t fetch coffee. Women of any rank shouldn’t fetch coffee.
Perez took his place at the head of the table. “Please sit down, Mr. Stone, Agent Harrison.”
Angel longed to defy the command. But today compliance served a purpose. She sat stiffly on the edge of the chair.
Ranger Perez slid a file folder to Stone, then one to Angel. “Here is the identity we’ve created for Agent Harrison. Since she works undercover with the Department of Public Safety gang unit, there will be no paper trail to refute the identity we’ve set up or cast any doubt on the whirlwind romance you two are about to begin. It’s the best cover we could devise to get an agent inside.”
“Is it really necessary? The Vegas wedding?” Stone asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Perez frowned. “We think so. It’s likely Jonathon Stone has been keeping tabs on you in recent years, possibly even the entire time you’ve been away from the sect. Marriage records are in the public domain, precluding a more long-term union. Hence your new red-hot romance with Agent Harrison resulting in a quickie marriage. The more public, the better.”
Angel winced. This was so not her idea of a decent cover. How would she be able to act lovey-dovey with the Eagle Scout? Eyeing him, she decided even a bottle of tequila wouldn’t do the trick.
Perez cleared his throat, as if sensing she wanted to bolt for the door. “We’ve shaved a few years off Agent Harrison’s profile because ATF surveillance indicates your stepfather, um, uncle, might be more…receptive to a daughter-in-law on the easy side of thirty. Fortunately Agent Harrison appears much younger than her age.”
Thanks, asshole.
Matthew’s lips twitched as if he’d heard her thoughts loud and clear. And agreed with her.
Angel revised her earlier assessment of Matthew white-bread-bland Stone. He might seem quiet and unperturbed, but beneath the surface he was razor-sharp.
Angel’s cheeks warmed with an unfamiliar wave of shame. Surely he couldn’t see inside her with that steady gaze of his? Couldn’t see all she’d endured and sacrificed to rejoin the human race?
He averted his head, but not before she’d seen pity flash in his eyes.
Damn. Did he know? There was nothing to tie her to the news reports detailing the bloodshed nine years ago.
But Matthew Stone somehow knew her shame. And pitied her.
Angel did what came naturally these days—she came out swinging. “Let me get this straight, Ranger Perez. You want to serve up my well-preserved-for-an-old-broad-of-thirty-one body to Jonathon Stone? That’s how I’m supposed to protect the women and children at Zion’s Gate?”
“Certainly not, Agent Harrison. Your job is to observe and report back. You will not have a weapon. You will not confront anyone at Zion’s Gate. You will secure information, nothing more.”
“You say one thing, Perez, but your actions say another. You are putting Agent Harrison at risk.” Matthew’s voice was deceptively quiet, with an underlying edge. “I won’t be a party to prostituting any woman to get in my uncle’s good graces. And, yes, as my father’s brother, he is my uncle. His marriage to my mother was not legal and was not sanctified in any church I acknowledge.”
Perez’s eyes narrowed. “Point taken.”
Angel noticed he didn’t deny sending mixed messages. He wasn’t going to flat out tell her not to sleep with the perverted old goat to facilitate her assignment.
Instead Perez fell back on the bureaucratic mumbo jumbo so uncharacteristic of a ranger. At least uncharacteristic until the deaths at the Branch Davidian sect and the resulting Waco fallout. “The Rangers are grateful to Agent Harrison for volunteering for this assignment. But, just so you’re both crystal clear, she is not working for the Texas Rangers in any capacity. Nor is she working for the ATF or DEA. Our agencies will merely be apprised of any information she gathers that might pertain to the security of our citizens.”
“So if anything happens to her, you’re not responsible.” Matthew’s relaxed pose didn’t change, but the air seemed to crackle around him. No wonder Jonathon Stone had taken the dangerous gamble of inviting his nephew back into the fold. Matthew had the charisma to shore up his uncle’s crumbling position as Zion’s Gate lord and dictator.
When Perez didn’t confirm or deny the allegation, Matthew continued. “The way I see it, you gentlemen are putting Agent Harrison at the mercy of a murderer, in the very core of his highly armed compound.”
Perez stiffened, his fists clenched. “We’re all adults here, we know what we’re up against.”
Matthew stood, his movements slow, almost lazy. “I’m not sure you have any idea what you’re up against at Zion’s Gate, Ranger Perez. And if you do, you will be no less culpable than my uncle.”
Only then did Angel realize Matthew Stone was sending a civilized death threat. She got the impression Perez’s badge would be little protection against Stone if things went wrong.
Angel understood in that moment how huge her initial error in judgment had been. Not only was Matthew Stone a lot smarter than he’d let on, he was an extremely dangerous man. Her gut told her he wouldn’t hesitate to kill if necessary.
And if the way Perez clenched his jaw was anything to go by, he realized it, too. “The fact is, Zion’s Gate is in law enforcement no-man’s-land. Part of it lies on the U.S. side of the border and is connected by a tunnel system to the rest of the compound. Even if the Texas authorities were magically able to remove their thumbs from their collective Waco-weary asses, Jonathon Stone would still use his tunnel system to move to the Mexican side.”
“And if the Mexican government pursued his flock, the same would happen in reverse.” Stone’s voice held a note of resignation.
“Exactly. Stone leases the Matamoros section of the property from drug lords, which further complicates the situation. Hence the DEA interest. It’s a volatile situation to begin with. Add a large cache of weapons, political unrest at Zion’s Gate and reports of Stone’s increasing paranoia and we’ve got a potential bloodbath on our hands.
MATTHEW SUPPRESSED a groan as he glanced around the foyer of the Las Vegas wedding chapel. Tacky was the first word that came to mind. Surreal was the second.
But he stood quietly to the side as Agent Harrison entered with her parents. The man was tall, stately, distinguished. He cupped his wife’s elbow with his hand as his gaze lingered on the woman’s face. She was beautiful, an older, more polished version of her daughter. Her bearing was graceful, the line of her clothes clean yet alluring. And when she turned in his direction, her dark eyes searched his face.
Angel stood on tiptoe to whisper something in her father’s ear.
The older man stiffened and turned toward Matthew. Angel took him by the hand and the three joined him.
“Daddy, this is Matthew, my, um, fiancé.”
Matthew extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“You can save it. I’m aware this isn’t a real wedding.”
The woman at his side made a censuring noise low in her throat.
“Keep your voice down, Daddy,” Angel snapped.
“Princess, it pains me to see you go through another ill-advised wedding, if only on paper.”
Princess? She’d impressed Matthew as more assassin than princess.
“It’ll be fine. Just do your part today. That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll do my part. But I can’t help worrying about you.”
“I know. But you don’t need to. I can take care of myself.”
Matthew observed the interplay with interest. Why was her father so worried? Surely she’d been on assignments just as dangerous. Maybe it wasn’t the mission that bothered him but the wedding, fake though it was.
“I’m Isabella Harrison.” The older woman extended her hand to Matthew. “We are very protective of our daughter.”
He accepted her hand, inhaled her exquisite scent. Intelligence gleamed in her eyes, her carriage screamed old-world class. And the tilt to her head said she’d never accept mistreatment from anyone.
Squeezing Isabella’s hand, he murmured, “With good reason.”
She tilted her head to the side, frowning slightly.
“Angel is a beautiful, unique woman. I assure you I’ll treat your daughter with respect.”
Nodding, she said, “Yes, Matthew, I can see that. How unfortunate the regular rules of etiquette don’t apply to weddings such as these. Otherwise I would welcome you to the family.”
Matthew wasn’t sure how to respond, so he simply said, “Thank you.”
“And is your family here?” Isabella asked.
“No, my mother’s health isn’t good. She sends her regrets.”
Matthew only hoped his mother didn’t learn of his sham marriage. She knew he was visiting Zion’s Gate at the government’s behest but had no idea a bride had been included in the package. Rescuing his sister from the compound would more than make up for his deception.
Isabella patted his arm. “Yes, Angel said something about chemotherapy? I will be sure to light a candle for your mother at Mass.”
“Thank you. She’d like that very much.”
The chapel doors opened and a young, radiant couple brushed past them.
“It looks like it’s our turn,” Angel said, her voice low and tense.
CHAPTER TWO
ANGEL GLANCED AT her watch. They’d been standing near the front of the chapel for what seemed like ages but in reality had only been twenty minutes.
Tucking her hand in the crook of Matthew’s arm, she gazed up into his face with adoration. Fortunately Pastor Elvis wasn’t close enough to hear the content of their conversation. “What’s the holdup?” Angel asked through her fixed smile.
“Only a tiny delay. I asked the pastor’s mother to retrieve something for me.”
“This was supposed to be a quickie wedding,” she whispered.
Shrugging, he placed his hand over hers. “I know this is difficult for you. But please humor me.”
He was extraordinarily calm for a man who had never been married. Even a fake wedding was enough to make most bachelors a little psychotic. Or maybe she was just remembering another man who’d made the leap from bachelorhood to craziness so quickly.
Angel was spared further wedding-day reminiscences as Elvis’s mother bustled in carrying a florist’s box as if it were the Holy Grail. She handed it to Matthew, along with a wad of bills. He accepted the box but pressed the bills into the woman’s pudgy hand.
“That’s too much,” she murmured, and appeared humbled. And this was Vegas, a town where large tips were as prevalent as silicone implants.
“No. It’s just right.” Matthew’s smile was warm. “Would you mind presenting it to my bride? I’m a little nervous and clumsy today.”
“Certainly, dear.” She removed the lid and drew back layers of tissue paper. Sighing, she presented Angel with a single white rose so perfect it brought tears to Angel’s eyes.
The pastor’s mother nodded and blinked. “He’s such a lovely man. You two will be very happy.”
Her words made Angel want to sit down on the floor and cry. Because once upon a time she had believed in happily ever after. Before Kent had twisted their love into a living nightmare.
“It’s time, sweetheart,” Matthew murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead.
“Would you stop being so damn nice.”
The pastor’s mother clucked in disappointment and Angel’s mother stepped closer.
She grasped Angel’s chin. “Are you okay with this, mija?”
For a split second, Angel was tempted to call it off. But her mother had raised her to have courage. Angel wouldn’t turn her back on the women and children at Zion’s Gate.
“Yes, Mama. Very sure.”
“Remember, if you need us, all you have to do is call.”
“Yes, Mama. I will.”
She turned to Matthew. “Take good care of her, Matthew.”
Matthew’s eyes widened a fraction. He had to realize there was a threat in her words. Whether their marriage was real or not, Isabella expected much from her son-in-law.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her mother patted his cheek as she walked by. “Good. We are of like minds, I think.”
“Yes, we are.” Matthew nodded to the pastor. “We’re ready to begin.”
Those had to be the scariest words Angel had ever heard. Because his voice held a timbre of finality that told her she was in way over her head.
Pastor Elvis stepped forward and cleared his throat, which had his mother scurrying to the boom box to start “Love Me Tender.”
But there was no need for a bridal march. The bride was already in position. Her father wouldn’t walk her down the aisle. He had guilt-ridden memories of giving her away to Kent. Instead Angel’s mother took her husband’s arm and led him to the first row of chairs.
The awkward three-plus minutes of Elvis’s croon gave Angel too much time to think about her assignment. She’d come a long way from her days as a terrified battered wife, but this assignment still made her uneasy. What if she fell into old ways of thinking?
The song ended with a sudden click and Elvis cleared his throat. Matthew looked composed.
But Angel couldn’t seem to keep the damn rose still. It trembled in her hands like a terrified kitten. Or maybe it was Angel herself who felt like a terrified kitten.
Squaring her shoulders, she resolved to be strong. She was a professional. And she knew how to kill a man in at least eighteen different ways. Without a weapon.
The absolute absurdity of being married by an Elvis impersonator should have reassured her. But glancing at Matthew’s solemn face, she started to sweat. The men in his family took “till death do us part” seriously. No one seemed to know how Matthew’s mother had managed to leave the man and live to tell about it. Angel figured Abigail Stone held some incriminating evidence against good old Jonathon, though she’d never revealed it.
“Do you have your own vows?” Elvis glanced from Matthew to Angel.
Angel opened her mouth to say no but heard yes being spoken in a very definitive baritone.
Matthew grasped her hand, turning her to face him. “Angelina, you are beautiful and courageous. I will love you, honor you, cherish you, protect you till death do us part. This is my solemn vow.”
Oh, God, he was laying it on too thick.
Mother Elvis sniffed, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Angel opened her mouth. This time she was relieved to hear her own alto. “Um, yeah, what he said.”
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Pastor Elvis intoned. “You may kiss the bride.”
“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered under her breath.
But Matthew took her in his arms and kissed her anyway.
After that it was all a blur. The wedding license was signed, her mother and father left and Elvis and his mother hustled them to the door, stammering something about a lovely honeymoon.
ANGEL’S EYES WIDENED as she entered the Venetian with Matthew, barely noticing the cabdriver leave their bags with the bellman.
The lobby was huge, with crystal chandeliers and a high ceiling. While the wedding chapel had been pure camp, this was close enough to the real deal for her to wish her honeymoon were, too. Wishes that should have died the first time Kent had raised his hand to her.
Angel vowed to remain strong and independent in her heart despite the stupid cover that required her to play a woman disillusioned enough with the outside world to embrace Zion’s Gate and all it entailed.
Matthew eyed her intently, as if he could read her thoughts. “Ready?”
She raised her chin. “Yes.”
As they approached the registration desk, Matthew wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her tight to his side.
She suppressed the knee-jerk reaction that would have had her delivering a crushing blow to her hubby’s groin. Although if she’d started her first marriage that way, things might have turned out very differently.
“Relax,” he murmured in her ear. “You’re supposed to look like you worship the ground I walk on.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Remember, my uncle has eyes and ears everywhere.”
He wanted an act? He’d sure get one.
Angel threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Matthew, this is so wonderful.” She stopped mid-lobby, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to lay a passionate lip-lock on him.
Pleasure shot through her. Not from the kiss but from Matthew’s groan of submission.
Then he nipped her lower lip.
Angel drew back, smiling. She was pleased to note several people were staring.
Matthew leaned close and whispered, “You’re acting too aggressive for a Zion’s Gate bride. Even for a woman unaccustomed to their ways. You leave me no choice.”
He stiffened and his face became stern. “Angelina, darling, you will need to learn your place before we arrive at my uncle’s house.” He grasped her shoulders, rotated her toward the reception desk and swatted her on the rear end.
Angel yelped and turned, ready to do battle.
“Remember, sweetheart, I am the man and you are the woman. My lessons will be gentle as long as you show a willingness to learn.”
This was what he’d meant by “no choice.” He felt the need to publicly chastise her. Too damn bad.
“Screw you.”
Matthew’s eyes flashed. He stepped close, grasping her chin. “Oh, I intend to, darling. I intend to.” Then he leaned down and ground his mouth to hers, possessiveness evident in every aggressive thrust of his tongue.
Angel felt trapped and small. She broke free. Very deliberately she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Stopping short, she suppressed a desire to spit at her new husband. “You sicken me.”
“I don’t think so, Angelina. Just the opposite. But we’ll see. Now go tidy yourself in the ladies’ room while I get our key. Then you will show me the proper respect a woman shows her husband.”
Angel turned and fled, just as Matthew had instructed.
Once inside, she pressed her back to the door. Her hands trembled violently. Her heart raced.
Oh, Lord, what had she gotten herself into?
MEMORY OF ANGEL’S stricken expression haunted Matthew while he registered at the front desk. His peripheral vision was trained on the ladies’ room door, and he saw Angel approach a few minutes later, her manner subdued as she took her place next to him.
Glancing at his bride, he was surprised to see a slightly green tinge to her olive complexion. Was her anguish an act, simply part of her cover? He hoped Perez knew what he was doing.
Matthew accepted the key card from the front desk manager. In turn, he pressed several large bills into the man’s palm. “My bride and I expect privacy. We might not set foot out of the room for the five days we’re here.”
The manager nodded and pocketed the money. “Certainly, sir. I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed. The bellman will show you to your suite.”
Angel stiffened when Matthew grasped her hand.
Sighing, he could have kicked himself for letting her aversion bother him. It didn’t matter what she thought as long as they could carry off this charade.
“This way, Angelina,” he murmured.
“Yes, Matthew.” Though her tone was passive, she held her head high.
When they reached their room, he tipped the bellman. “Thank you. I can take it from here.”
Nodding, the bellman pulled their bags from the cart and retreated down the hall.
Matthew swallowed hard when they entered their suite. It was every woman’s wedding-night fantasy. At least that’s what the flash of longing in Angel’s eyes told him.
Too bad there would be no wedding-night, can’t-get-enough-of-each-other sex. Or slow, sweet sex, for that matter.
Angel took one look at the king-size bed and laughed. “Looks like I’ll be very comfortable.” She nodded toward the couch. “You, on the other hand, might be a bit cramped.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
She eyed him up and down. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He set down the suitcases. “Look, Angel, get this straight. We’re here to make things look a certain way. If we succeed, my uncle will allow us into the compound and may invite us to stay. If we fail, one or both of us could end up dead.”
“You already made your point in the lobby. I know I’m supposed to portray some brainless Stepford wife.”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I understand it’ll be hard. You shouldn’t have to disguise your wit and strength. But it’s necessary.”
She cleared her throat and glanced away.
He wondered if he’d revealed too much. He also wondered why compliments bothered her.
Matthew stepped back. “Fortunately my interest in you is something my uncle will understand, as well as the hasty marriage. As long as I appear to be training you in the ways of our people, chances are good he will accept this impulsive wedding.”
“I hope that sexist crap in the lobby was an act.”
He nodded, uncomfortable with the half-truth. A part of him wanted to make Angel his own. But not by resorting to trickery.
Angel placed her suitcase on the bed and opened it. “What is this?” she demanded.
Glancing over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the look of sheer revulsion on her face.
Angel held the pastel long-sleeved cotton nightgown between her fingertips as if it were something poisonous.
“That’s your, um, nightwear.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Those are the clothes a good Zion’s Gate wife wears. Very conservative and demure.”
“Demure, my ass.”
Matthew laughed. “No, your ass is anything but demure, Angel. The point is, nobody but me is to have a clue about your, um, attributes.”
Angel’s face grew pink.
He was intrigued. The tough-talking, independent policewoman was embarrassed by a relatively tame flirtation.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
