your help with Rohan.”
“Anytime.”
“Brody!” Vic Scarlatti clapped his hands together as he entered the kitchen from the hall. “Good to see you, my friend. Sorry I didn’t stay up to greet you last night, but I’m to bed with the chickens these days. Everything was in order in the guesthouse?”
“Perfect order. Good to see you.”
Vic was sixty-two, his hair thick and gray, his angular face tanned and lined. He was wiry and quick-witted, his mix of hardheadedness and can-do optimism no doubt suited to his decades as a career diplomat. “Did you rescue Rohan?”
“Heather did.”
Vic turned to her. “Good for you. Thank you. I’m glad you and Brody met. I didn’t think to tell you about him. Can you believe he’s a DSS agent?”
Heather drew a blank. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Diplomatic Security Service. Short answer, he protects idiots like me.” Vic smiled. “Our Brody. Can you believe it?”
She tried not to look dumbfounded. Our Brody?
Brody said nothing, but she thought she saw a distinct hardening of his jaw, as if he were steeling himself against some inevitable revelation.
Vic was still smiling, obviously unaware of his guest’s tension. “I’ve been trying to get Brody back here for years. His feud with the Sloan boys didn’t help.”
“There’s no feud.” Brody’s tone was even, without any hint of emotion. “There was a fight, but it was a long time ago.”
A fight? A long time ago? Heather’s head was spinning. She could feel her brow furrowing with her confusion, and her heartbeat quickened with what could only be called dread. What were Vic and Brody talking about? What was she missing?
“The fight involved pumpkins, as I recall,” Vic said lightly, addressing Heather. “Brody wasn’t arrested. He got out of town before the situation escalated further.”
“Always a good thing,” Brody said, still with that even, unemotional tone.
Vic sighed. “Honestly, though. Pumpkins. I swear, only in Knights Bridge. But look at our Brody now. He’s one hell of a kick-ass federal agent.”
“Vic,” Brody said, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice.
“What? It’s the truth.”
“Wait. Our Brody? A fight with my brothers?” Heather turned to Brody, feeling some of the warmth drain out of her. “Exactly who are you?”
“There you go, Brody,” Vic said, clearly amused. “Heather doesn’t remember you. Maybe her brothers won’t remember you, either.”
“I’m not that lucky.” He took a half step toward her, the faintest glint of humor in his dark eyes. “It’s okay, Heather. I remember you. Wild hair, braces, cute little dimples and a serious crush on me.” He winked. “Guess the crush didn’t last, huh?”
“Wait.” Heather realized she wasn’t breathing. “You’re that Brody? Brody Hancock?”
“The same.”
He grinned as he nodded a farewell to Vic and left through the back door.
Vic let out a long breath. “Brody is one intense man. He always has been. You really don’t remember him?”
Heather grimaced. “I do now.”
Vic eyed her a moment then peered into the mudroom at Rohan, sound asleep in his bed. “He looks as if he’s had his adventure for the day. I searched high and low for him in the garage and on the porches. I hate to think what could have happened to the little miscreant if you hadn’t found him. Not that it’s his fault he scooted off.”
“Do you have any idea how he got out?”
He didn’t answer at once, his gaze still on the sleeping puppy. Finally, he shook his head. “No idea. I turned my back and off he went. Not used to puppies, I guess.” He smiled at Heather, his infectious warmth again in place. “Thank you, Heather. Rescuing puppies is above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Glad to do it, Vic.”
“And Brody?”
She wondered if Vic could tell being around his house guest—finding out he was Brody Hancock from Knights Bridge—was doing things to her insides. “I managed without him, but I’m sure he’d have been helpful if he’d been needed.”
“He’s a good man to have on your side.”
“No doubt.”
“Heather...” Vic inhaled, clearly ill at ease. He picked a stray thread off his sweater and flicked it into the sink. “Brody hasn’t stepped foot in Knights Bridge since the summer after he graduated high school. He was an angry, troubled teenager then.”
Sexy, too, Heather thought. But she’d been in middle school, and if anything, he was even sexier now.
She noticed that her scarf had fallen onto the floor and scooped it up. It, too, was wet. She slung it over her coat. “How long has Brody been a DSS agent?”
“At least ten years. He was recruited his senior year in college.”
“You had something to do with that?”
“Only to answer his questions. He got in on his own merits. He’s good, too. Damn good. It’s a tough job.”
“I’m sure,” Heather said, no doubt in her mind.
“Did you fall in the brook before or after he came to your rescue?”
“I didn’t fall in the brook, and he didn’t rescue me.”
Vic laughed. “That’s what I figured you’d say.” He motioned toward the front of the house. “Why don’t you go and warm up by the fire? You’re done in, Heather. Relax before you head home. Get your bearings.”
“Thank you,” she said, realizing she still was barefoot, with wet boots, wet socks and wet pants. She smiled at Vic. “Warming up by the fire sounds nice.”
Heather splayed her fingers, still a bit red from her Rohan rescue, in front of the orange flames roaring behind a black screen in the massive stone fireplace, one of the many distinct original features of the century-old house. She wriggled her toes as she stood on the hearth. Her brother Adam, a stonemason, would be taking a look at the chimneys and fireplaces, as well as the outside stonework, all part of the renovations.
That was where her mind should be, she told herself. Not on a DSS agent who’d left Knights Bridge under a cloud more than a decade ago.
“You should dry your socks in front of the fire,” Adrienne Portale said as she entered the
