me Jared,’ he murmured, and then he caught Trig’s sudden alertness and switched his attention to his oldest friend—who was now his brand-new brother-in-law.
‘Jared …’
Trig looked faintly amused—or was it resigned? Maybe Trig had ESP, or maybe he’d simply known Jared so long that he could read every twitch, but somehow Trig had sensed his interest in this section head with the funny face and the whisky voice and the smile that was a weapon.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Really bad idea.’
‘I’ve had worse.’ Jared turned his attention back to the director and smiled.
Rowan Farringdon wasn’t slow on the uptake. ‘Listen to your friend, Mr West. I’d chew you up and spit you out before breakfast.’
‘I wouldn’t complain.’
‘Oh, but you would.’
Did the woman’s lips never stop tilting towards a smile?
‘If I get in that car with you am I going to end up at the farmhouse or in debrief?’
‘At the farmhouse for tonight. I give you my word. You don’t have to be in debrief until ten past nine tomorrow morning.’
‘Any idea what they plan to do with me after that?’
Her expression grew guarded and in that moment he got a glimpse of the razor-sharp politicking that could make a woman section head at forty.
‘I dare say that’ll depend on the way you play your cards from here on in. You can play? Right?’
He was handsomer than she’d expected, thought Rowan—and she’d expected a lot. His body was big, and brutally honed for fighting, and the close-cropped black hair on his head only added to his formidable air. In contrast, his face could have graced billboards or movie screens, and his mouth had a ripeness to it that would leave lovers dreaming for just one more taste. Great jawline and cheekbones—and eyes that had seemed soft and liquid-bright whenever he looked at his sister, but were sharp and assessing now.
This was the man who’d singlehandedly destroyed a hundred-billion-dollar illegal arms empire. Singlehandedly exposed a line of rot within the anti-terrorism unit he’d worked for that had stretched all the way to a sub-director’s chair. The fallout had been spectacular, and there was fierce debate as to whether there was still more to come—whether he’d withheld information … saved the best until last.
She would have.
‘Mr West, let me drive you up to the house and have a doctor take a look at you. My men are taking bets on how many ribs you’ve broken and whether or not you’ve lost your hearing. Odds are three to one at the moment that you’re simply a very good lip-reader.’
‘They just want to look at my lips.’ Jared West let his lips curve into that lazy smile again. ‘I get that a lot.’
‘I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you use it to your best advantage.’ She let her gaze linger on the lips in question, because they really were that good, but after a slow count to three she stopped and snapped her gaze back to his eyes. Control. She had it and she fully intended to keep it. ‘The fact remains that we’d like someone to take a look at you.’
‘Is that an order?’
‘Do you take them?’
He smiled again. ‘From you—I might.’
‘You could use a Taser on him?’ Trig suggested. ‘That might work.’
‘I could, but he looks rough enough already. If I killed him there’d be paperwork.’
‘Director, would you mind if I had a word with the groom in private?’ asked West.
He tried to make the words sound like a request—he did give her that. But he expected her to grant his request. That much was very clear.
Rowan wasn’t going anywhere until she’d figured out his health status.
‘Try over by the river,’ she suggested. ‘It’s private there.’
‘It’s private here.’
‘Mr West.’ Gloves off, then, and to hell with protecting his ego. ‘How about you stand up and prove to my people that you can still walk?’
His chin came out. His gaze was all fierce challenge—no weakness in it at all.
‘I can walk.’
‘I’d like to see that.’
But he didn’t get up.
Pride was a bitch.
‘See that he gets to the house. We’ve a doctor waiting for him.’
Rowan didn’t wait for Trig’s reply before heading towards her car. She knew what it was going to cost West to get moving again. She’d been monitoring his movements ever since Antonov’s super-yacht had blown up. The trail of destruction he’d left in his wake and his relentless drive to get home in time for his sister’s wedding had been truly spectacular. No sleep for the past fifty hours and he was beyond exhausted—his body was struggling to hold him upright.
The only thing keeping him upright was willpower.
This was a man who’d been streamed for command from the moment he’d taken his first special intelligence service entry exam. He’d excelled at every position they’d ever given him. And if you counted his time with Antonov as solo dark ops work, he’d excelled at that too. She’d been expecting a pretty face atop a fierce intellect—a will of iron and a predisposition towards making trouble.
She wasn’t disappointed.
‘Great walk,’ Jared murmured as he watched her walk away, all confidence and sway. And he still liked her ears.
‘Can you walk?’ Trig wasn’t going to be distracted.
‘I think so. I just can’t get up.’
Trig held out his arm and Jared grasped it—high near the elbow, a climber’s grip. Next minute he was standing, and gasping, trying not to pass out or throw up or both. Two harsh breaths after that Lena materialised beside him, swathed in wedding dress white, with her hand wrapped around his other upper arm to keep him balanced.
‘You’re heading up to the house?’ she wanted to know.
‘In a bit.’ There was the small matter of having to get there on his own two feet to consider first.
He could walk.
Couldn’t he?
‘Use the bed in the master bedroom.’
‘You mean your bed?’ Their
