Читать книгу Secret Agent Dad - Metsy Hingle - Страница 11

One

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Josie Walters smacked her fist against the steering wheel of her aging Explorer and glared at the windshield wipers as they waged a losing battle with the punishing rain. Slowing to little more than a crawl, she pointed the blue truck down the dark, empty road. “I should never have waited so long to leave Royal,” she grumbled.

She should have been home hours ago, safe and warm in her farmhouse, not driving through this monster-size storm. And she would have been, if she hadn’t listened to that Pollyanna voice in her head again.

“What made me think that placing an ad for a farmhand would be the answer to my prayers? Some answer!” Clenching the steering wheel with her fingers, Josie mocked her own foolish optimism.

“You’re a first-rate idiot, Josie Walters.” Because only an idiot would have convinced herself to wait for that last job applicant, believing he would be any different from the other five men she’d interviewed and ruled out. Not only had number six, a drifter named Pete Mitchell, been just as incapable and overpriced as the others, but the man had actually expected access to her bed as a fringe benefit.

“The jerk! Sex-starved widow, indeed!” Remembering the remark, she fumed, and prayed that Forrest Cunningham, a member of that ritzy Texas Cattleman’s Club, hadn’t overheard him. Everyone else in the diner probably had, though. How would she ever be able to set foot in Royal again? The fact that she’d even allowed the beady-eyed excuse for a man to finish making the proposition with his hand on her rear end before she’d dumped her coffee m his lap proved what a desperate fool she was. At the admission, some of the fight went out of her, and she sighed.

When will you learn, Josie? You are not Cinderella. Not even close. Didn’t all those years of being passed over for adoption teach you that much? If you had any doubts, surely that cheating man you married hammered home the message. After all, it wasn’t you he’d taken with him to Dallas when he wrapped his car around that utility pole. You didn’t quite measure up, remember? That’s why he’d taken that pretty new waitress from Midland with him. Face it, Josie girl. The only fairy-tale endings or princes you’re likely to find are between the covers of a book.

Pushing the painful memories aside, Josie focused on today’s blunder while she continued to creep down the road. Not only was she out the cost of the ad, she’d also lost another day. A day she could ill afford to lose when so much work still needed to be done before the bank’s inspection. How was she supposed to get the farm in shape if she couldn’t find help that she could afford? And what would she do if the bank turned down her request for a loan and she lost the farm?

Acid churned in Josie’s stomach at the thought. She wouldn’t lose the farm. She couldn’t. Regardless of her disaster of a marriage, at least Ben had left her the farm. And despite its run-down condition, the place was her home. Home. For the first time in her twenty-nine years she actually had one she could call her own. And she wasn’t about to give it up without a fight. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to keep it with or without the loan. She had to.

Suddenly a speed limit sign flew into her path, and Josie swerved to miss it. Her heart slamming in her chest, she pulled onto the shoulder of the road and noted for the first time that the storm was getting worse. When she’d left Royal there had only been a stiff wind. But now sheets of rain had joined the howling wind, whipping across the landscape and her truck. Josie shivered and turned up the collar of her denim jacket. Maybe she’d be wise to shelve her worries about the farm for the time being and concentrate on getting home in one piece.

Shifting the truck out of Park, she carefully eased it back onto the road. She’d never seen weather like this before—not in this part of Texas, where rain was such a rarity. Thinking back on how often she’d wished for rain for her roses, Josie shook her head. She certainly had never wanted anything like this... this deluge. She could handle the occasional sandstorms common to the area, but she didn’t have a clue on how to deal with a flood. Suddenly nerves twisted like knots in her stomach, because judging by the amount of water already in the normally dry creek bed, she could very well be facing a flood by morning unless this stopped.

Leaning forward to peer through the windshield, Josie tried to see the road between the swipes of the windshield wipers. Up ahead she could make out the arm of a windmill lying smashed in the middle of the road. A prickle of uneasiness skipped down her spine.

As she approached the broken windmill blade, a glimmer of light to the left caught her eye. Her heartbeat tripled at the sight of a car pointed nose down toward the rising creek bed. Then she spied a body sprawled next to it. “Oh, my God!” Pulling her Explorer off to the side of the road, Josie set the emergency brake and quickly released her seat belt.

Not bothering with an umbrella or slicker, she shoved open the truck’s door and broke into a run down the incline toward the wrecked car. Before she’d gone three feet, she was soaked to the skin and shivering from the cold. Slapping hair out of her eyes, Josie clamped her chattering teeth together and dropped down beside the man’s body. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer as she pressed her fingers to the pulse in his neck. Relief shot through her when she found it strong and steady.

“Can you hear me?” she yelled to be heard above the wind. When he moaned, she tilted his head toward the light shining down from her truck. Josie’s breath caught as she saw him. Oh my. What a face. The face of a golden prince. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, sexy mouth. Even unconscious and with a nasty cut on his forehead, the man would make grown women drool. He stirred, moaned again, then his eyelids fluttered. Brown eyes with flecks of gold stared up at her.

“Wh-what happened?” he asked, his voice as rough as sandpaper and barely audible above the roar of wind.

“You’ve had an accident,” she fairly shouted, trying to make herself heard. Although the rain seemed to slacken, the wind had picked up considerably. “You must have hit that broken windmill blade in the road. Judging by that nasty cut on your forehead, you probably hit the windshield.” She glanced over at his car, then back at him. “It’s a wonder the air bag didn’t inflate,” she said and wondered if he had disconnected it.

He looked at her as though he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Then he lifted his hand to her face.

The unexpected touch of his fingers on her face sent a shock through Josie. Her stomach tightened. She wasn’t used to being touched—especially by a man, and it had been a long time since she’d responded so strongly to a man. Ben’s philandering and his catalog of her shortcomings had long ago killed any secret cravings she had to be touched by a man. An hour before she would have sworn that that part of her femininity had died long before her husband had. Evidently she’d been wrong, because her skin tingled where he’d touched her. Feeling foolish and embarrassed by her thoughts, she began checking him for other injuries.

“Wh-who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Josie. Josie Walters.”

“I didn’t know angels had last names.”

Josie’s hands stilled on his ribs. She shot her gaze back to his face. “I’m not an angel,” she told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she assured him.

“I always pictured angels with eyes like yours—the color of summer grass.”

The conversation was absurd, Josie told herself. She was kneeling on the side of the road in a storm with an accident victim discussing the color of her eyes. Still, she couldn’t stop that fluttery sensation in her stomach. Noting the way he was watching her, she swallowed. She had to be imagining things, Josie told herself. Men didn’t look at her like that. Most men didn’t even look twice—at least not men like this one. There were too many beautiful women in Texas to settle for one with skinny curves, unruly hair and a forgettable face. Evidently the bump on the fellow’s head had affected his eyesight. “Sorry to disappoint you, cowboy, but I’m no angel.”

“I guess that means that I’m not dead, then.”

Josie bit back a smile. She swiped the sopping hair from her eyes again. “Nope. You’re not dead. And as far as I can tell, you don’t have any broken bones, either.” Still kneeling, she sat back on her heels. “You’ve got a few bruises and a knot the size of a lemon on the back of your head. But that cut on your forehead looks like it’s going to need stitching. Do you think you can sit up?”

“Yeah.”

She slipped one arm behind his neck and eased him up to a sitting position. As she did so, her breast brushed his arm. A flicker of heat licked through her at the innocent contact. Surprised and confused by her reaction, Josie bit back the urge to jerk away. But as soon as he was sitting up on his own, she dropped her arm and eased back a fraction. “Even if your car will still run, I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive. My truck’s parked up there on the road.” She motioned to where she had left the Explorer running with the lights on. “I’m no lightweight, but I doubt that I can carry you. Do you think if I help you that you can make it up to my truck? We need to get you to a hospital.”

The dazed look in his eyes cleared for a moment, then sharpened. A fierce scowl transformed his face from the GQ label she’d pegged him with, to someone dangerous, untamed, a man who defied any label. His response to her was quick and razor edged, but it was lost in another rush of wind.

“What?” she asked, leaning closer.

“No hospitals.”

“But your head—”

As though he’d forgotten the mjury, he pressed his fingers to his forehead. They came away with blood, which the rain quickly washed away. When he looked up at her again, a frown lined his brow. “I’ll be okay. No hospitals.”

“But you’re hurt.”

His dark eyes grew clouded. He looked confused for a moment, then the GQ pinup was back. A lopsided grin curved his lips. “Just a scratch,” he insisted. “I bet a kiss would make it all better.”

Josie blinked rain from her eyes. Her stomach dipped. “You’re crazy,” she told him and started to stand.

His hand shot out and he captured her wrist. Before she could stop him, he tugged her toward him, and sent them both toppling back to the muddy ground. Then his mouth—that wet, sexy mouth of his was covering her own—kissing her with a skill and a gentleness that made Josie’s head spin. She forgot about the rain. She forgot about the cold. She forgot about the fact that she was on the side of a deserted road sprawled atop a stranger—an injured stranger—with the eyes of a dark angel who kissed like a fairy-tale prince.

Suddenly, as though by magic, the wind’s angry hiss lost some of its bite. Even the rain slowed. And that’s when she heard it. A baby crying—crying at the top of its lungs. The sound slashed through Josie’s kiss-dulled senses like a scalpel. She jerked her mouth free and scrambled back from him quicker than a snap. She gave her head a shake to clear it. Lord, now she was imagining she heard babies.

“I was right. I don’t need a hospital after all. All I needed was a kiss. I’m feeling a lot better,” he told her, pushing himself up to his elbows as though he were stretched out on a couch and not on the side of a road in mud.

Feeling foolish for her reaction to him, she shoved herself to her feet. “Obviously, you’re not hurt as badly as I thought.”

Turning her back on him, she started for her truck. Then she heard it again—a baby crying. She stopped, looked back. “This is going to sound crazy, but—”

He was right where she’d left him—only now he was lying flat on his back, his eyes closed. She hurried over to him, discovered him out cold. And once again she heard the baby crying—only this time it was louder. Pushing to her feet, Josie stepped past the unconscious stranger and headed for his wrecked car. Her boots slid in the mud as she sought purchase on the incline where the car rested at an angle. He’d shut off the engine, but the lights were still on, and the driver’s door was slightly ajar.

Flinging her braid back from her face, Josie yanked open the rear door of the fancy sedan. “Oh, my God,” she whispered at the sight of the two red-faced, squealing infants strapped into car seats. One of the babies held out its little arms and hands toward her as though pleading to be picked up.

A fist closed around Josie’s heart. Her brain shut down, and her heart took over. “Shh. It’s okay, precious,” she murmured. Ducking inside the car, she released the latch on the car seat nearest to her and took the first little one into her arms. She held the baby against her breast, smoothed her fingers over the tufts of blond hair and stroked the tiny back. Almost at once the baby’s sobs lessened and a tiny thumb went into its mouth.

The other baby continued to wail brokenheartedly. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you, sweetie.” She leaned over the seat to stroke the other baby’s cheek, and planted a kiss on its little fingers. Then, pulling the jacket hood up over the head of the baby she held, Josie shifted the bundle to her left shoulder and used her free hand to grab its car seat. “I’ll be right back,” she promised the other sobbing infant. As much as she hated to leave the remaining baby alone for even a second, she didn’t dare try to take them both at once and risk falling. Shielding the baby with her body as best she could, Josie headed for her truck.

Three trips later, she had both babies strapped in the rear seat of her Explorer, relatively content with the pacifiers she’d found. The matching diaper bags and a tote with enough diapers, baby food and formula to last several weeks had been stowed safely on the back floor. All she had to do now was get their still-unconscious daddy into her truck.

Any thoughts she’d had about leaving him and going home to call for help went out the window after she discovered the babies. Opening the vial of smelling salts she’d retrieved from her truck’s first-aid kit, she waved it under his nose.

He grunted, slapped the bottle away and grabbed her wrist in a paralyzing grip. His strength surprised her, given the fact that he’d been unconscious. But it was the deadly glitter in his eyes that made her heart race. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me. Josie Walters. Remember?”

“Josie?” he repeated, his expression wary.

“Yes. You had an accident. Remember? I stopped to help. I need to get you out of the rain. My truck’s just up there on the road. Can you stand up?”

He didn’t say anything, but allowed her to help him to his feet. “That’s it. Just lean on me,” she told him. What seemed an eternity later, she had him in the front seat of her truck. She’d no sooner gotten him strapped in before he passed out again.

The stretch of road that normally took her fifteen minutes to drive took a full thirty as she was forced to maneuver past fallen trees, signs and a road slick with mud and rain. When she finally pulled up to her farmhouse, Josie nearly wept at the welcoming sight of the lights burning inside.

She cut off the truck’s engine and flexed her fingers, positive that she’d left dents in the steering wheel during the harrowing drive. “We’re home,” she told the sleepy-eyed duo in the backseat. Unfastening her seat belt, she braced herself for the cool air and opened the door.

Blake felt the cool air swirl around him and tried to fight his way up from the darkness. Tossing and turning, he struggled toward the sound of a woman’s soft voice. But try as he might, other voices intruded, pulled him back into the dark...back into a long, dark hall of marbled floors and foreign scents....

Hurry.

The word was a chant in his blood as Blake removed his arm from around the guard’s throat. The man’s body slid to the floor unconscious. Hurry. Have to hurry, Blake thought. Stepping over the guard, he made his way down the long, shadowed corridor, his feet moving silently along the polished surface. Nothing could go wrong, he told himself. Too many people were depending on him. He had studied the layout of the palace, memorized every detail, down to the posdtion of each monarch’s portrait that had lined these walls since the sixteenth century. Even in the deep shadows, he knew ten feet to his left the Asterland coat of arms hung beside the door that led to the royal nursery. He moved silently, quickly, as he had been trained to do, and took out the two guards stationed outside the door. Removing the specialized set of picks from his wallet, he inserted them into the lock. Moments later the tumblers clicked, and Blake stepped inside the room.

A check of the nanny’s quarters revealed the old dragon was out cold, a snore whistling through her wrinkled lips. A smile curved his mouth as he thought of his friend wooing the lady. He’d have to remember to send Pierre an extra hundred francs as a bonus for combat pay. Romancing the woman in order to slip the drug into her wine could not have been an easy task for his friend, who preferred sleek beauties with large breasts.

Exiting the nanny’s suite, he stepped inside the room of her two charges. A sliver of moonlight fought through the balcony doors, illuminating the two cribs. Nerves were bunched like fists in his gut at the task before him, but the adrenaline rush that he experienced with any mission had him heading for the balcony doors. He flicked open the locks, and without waiting to see who entered, he started toward the cribs. He hesitated at the tiny sleeping bundles. A live grenade he could handle. But a baby? What if he dropped it? What if...

“Hurry, mon ami.”

The other man’s voice spurred him to action. The baby didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash as he wrapped it up and eased it into the pouch strapped to his chest. When he went to retrieve the other one, big blue eyes stared up at him. “Hey, sugar britches. Uncle Blake’s going to take you on a trip to see your Aunt Anna. How would you like that?” The little one didn’t protest, merely reached out tiny fingers to touch his black-sooted face. Blake’s throat went dry. He caught the little hand, not wanting to dirty those perfect white fingers with a warrior’s paint.

“Blake,” the other man spit out his name in warning.

“There’s something going on downstairs. Guards are rushing inside the palace.”

Steps sounded outside in the corridor. Deciding quickly, he unstrapped the pouches from his chest and began fastening them to the other man’s body. “Take them to the boat.”

“Are you crazy? I know nothing of babies. ”

“Neither do I,” Blake informed his companion as he urged him to the balcony doors.

“What if they cry?” the other man asked, his dark eyes wide with fear and his accent more pronounced

“Try singing to them. You always say the ladies love your voice.”

The other man grumbled something in his native tongue, which Blake made no attempt to translate in his head. Grateful that neither baby protested this middle-of the-night intrusion, he pressed a kiss to each tiny head. “Be good for Michel. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“But, Blake—”

“Go,” Blake ordered.

“Hurry, mon ami.”

Hurry. Hurry.

The words came at him again from out of a fog—this one of blinding rain and skidding tires. His head hurt, felt like it was ready to explode any minute. He swiped at his head, and groaned at another stab of pain. He could feel something warm and sticky on his fingertips. Blood, Blake realized. Doesn’t matter. Have to keep moving.

He couldn’t see. The road was too dark, the rain too strong. And he was tired. So tired. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t dare stop or they’d find him, kill him, steal the babies. He couldn’t let that happen. Only his head hurt something fierce, and he couldn’t seem to remember which way to turn.

Remember, we’re depending on you, Blake. Be careful, and for God’s sake man, hurry.

Blake heard the man’s voice, and he struggled to sit up. “Have to hurry. Can’t let them down. Gave my word,” he muttered.

“Shh. It’s okay.” Gentle hands pressed him back down to the bed. “You can’t go anywhere right now. You need to rest.”

Blake tried to open his eyes, to see the face that went with the new voice that came to him out of the fog. But try as he might, his eyes refused to obey. He tried to sit up again, but was pressed back against the mattress.

“It’s storming outside, and the phone lines are down,” she told him. “Even if the roads are still passable, you’re in no condition to drive. So, you might as well quit fighting me and try to rest.” Fingers as soft and warm as the voice stroked his brow, eased the ache in his head.

“If you’re worried about your babies, you don’t need to be. They’re safe and sound asleep in the next room.”

Babies? He didn’t have any babies.

He wanted to tell her that, tried to make sense of what she was saying to him, but it hurt too much when he tried to think. Instead, he allowed himself to be soothed by the gentle touch of her fingers, the sweet sound of her voice.

“Yes. That’s it. Try to rest,” she murmured. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to wake you up again in an hour. That’s what the book says to do for head injuries. Wake up the injured party every hour so that you don’t go into a coma.”

Talk of head injuries, comas and babies jumbled in his brain. So he focused on her touch, the soothing sound of her voice. Her familiar voice. Frowning, he tried to remember. Was she friend or enemy? Could she be trusted? When she started to press something cold against his head, he grabbed her hand.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, but made no attempt to wrestle free. “You pulled the bandage loose. I’m just putting more ointment on that cut before I bandage it up again.”

The need to see her, to see the face that went with the voice was so strong he battled to open his eyes. When he finally managed to do so, he caught a glimpse of familiar green eyes. “Angel,” he whispered, his eyes closing again. But even as the darkness began to tug him under, he could still see those clear green eyes—the eyes of his angel.