Page 50
Story: Special Ops Seduction
But here, standing in this room while Bethan rifledthrough her mother’s things, it all struck him in a different way. Because seeing her in all her different phases made him... Well. It was that same nostalgia for things that weren’t his. That same longing that seemed to bloom into a kind of ache, because there was something about the progression. From a little girl with a gap-toothed smile and pigtails to the sleek Army Ranger. He could see the little girl in the Army Ranger’s face. And the suggestion of the Army Ranger to come in that little girl, too.
It had never occurred to him that memory could be more than a grim, harsh weapon. That it could be a bow, tying things together and making them shine.
And he thought, again, that it was possible he wasn’t going to survive this after all—that she had already taken him out when whole wars had tried and failed to do the same—when he heard the sound of that big wooden door creaking open.
He wheeled around and found Bethan doing the same. Their eyes met in a flash, and Jonas didn’t think. He hit the ground behind the couch, hoping that whoever came in wouldn’t head for the fireplace the way he had.
He froze, still and silent, as someone charged down that short hall, aware that Bethan hadn’t tried to hide herself, which meant she was facing the intruder.
There was a silence. But not a good one.
An indrawn breath.
Jonas tensed.
And then, “What on earth do you think you’re doing in here?”
Thirteen
Bethan smiled blandly at Charlotte, the housekeeper, who was literally bristling where she stood at the end of the hallway.
“Oh, hello, Charlotte,” she said mildly. “I didn’t think you worked this late. I hope my parents pay you a lot of overtime.”
“I’ll ask again,” Charlotte said, and it was very interesting to watch the woman without her customary polish. Without that obsequious smile, or all that service she clearly prided herself on. Or usually did, anyway. “What are you doing in your mother’s office?”
Jonas had been over there looking at likely embarrassing pictures over the fireplace, and that had given Bethan the idea. She didn’t glance in his direction, because she didn’t want Charlotte to see that he was hiding there, so Bethan only smiled down at the picture she’d swiped from her mother’s desk.
“This was taken on their first date,” she said softly. It was true. She held a picture of her parents takenapproximately a thousand years ago. They were both so young they practically squeaked. And more, they glowed with the offhanded attractiveness of youth. He was handsome and she was pretty, and it was hard to reconcile these strange, bright creatures, who looked as if they were up to a bit of mischief, with her far more restrained parents.
She set the frame back down and turned that smile back on Charlotte. “I remember when I was much younger than they are in this picture. Now I’m older. I guess that’s the way of things, but it feels weird.”
But the housekeeper was staring back at her, still bristling with affront, and did not look particularly charmed by Bethan’s reminiscing. “Mrs. Wilcox does not like anyone in her office.”
Bethan didn’t have to think about hercharacterin this instance. Her smile faded a little as she regarded this woman who looked ready to storm over, put hands on her, and bodily remove her, if necessary.
“Charlotte.” Bethan reminded herself to be kind. “This is my parents’ house. I understand that you work for them, and clearly they have certain expectations of you. But if I want to come in here and look at family pictures because I’m full of nostalgia, that’s what I’m going to do. With or without permission.”
“I’m afraid that’s not acceptable.”
“My little sister is getting married. I brought a man home to meet my father, for the first time ever.” It occurred to her that both of those things might, in fact, be factors in how she was feeling—and she wished she hadn’t said them with Jonas listening. But she pushed on. “It’s an emotional time, Charlotte, and having you try to tell me how to behave in the house where I grew up does not help.”
“The general and Mrs. Wilcox take their privacy very seriously,” the other woman said stiffly.
“They’re welcome to take it up with me, then,” Bethanretorted. But then she summoned her smile again. “Don’t worry, I’ll let myself out.”
And then there was a bit of a staring contest. Bethan felt her eyebrows inch higher and higher on her brow, and for a moment, she thought Charlotte wasn’t going to give in. It made her wonder what the other woman’s actual job here was.
But the longer the silence between them dragged out, the more she could see Charlotte waver. Until finally, she inclined her head sharply, turned with near-military precision, and then stalked away.
Bethan waited until the door closed behind her. Then went over to make sure that she hadn’t simply opened and shut it but stayed inside. But the small hallway was empty. When she came back into the room, it was just in time to watch as Jonas rose from his hiding place.
Like some kind of mythical creature. Lethal. Glorious. A song to be sung, an epic tale to be told.
Settle down, she ordered herself.
“Way to handle the staff,” he said dryly. “I bet they taught you that in finishing school.”
Bethan opted not to argue about the kinds of schools she’d attended. “Something about her rubs me the wrong way. It’s not that I think she’s some kind of operative, necessarily. But I’m their daughter.”
It had never occurred to him that memory could be more than a grim, harsh weapon. That it could be a bow, tying things together and making them shine.
And he thought, again, that it was possible he wasn’t going to survive this after all—that she had already taken him out when whole wars had tried and failed to do the same—when he heard the sound of that big wooden door creaking open.
He wheeled around and found Bethan doing the same. Their eyes met in a flash, and Jonas didn’t think. He hit the ground behind the couch, hoping that whoever came in wouldn’t head for the fireplace the way he had.
He froze, still and silent, as someone charged down that short hall, aware that Bethan hadn’t tried to hide herself, which meant she was facing the intruder.
There was a silence. But not a good one.
An indrawn breath.
Jonas tensed.
And then, “What on earth do you think you’re doing in here?”
Thirteen
Bethan smiled blandly at Charlotte, the housekeeper, who was literally bristling where she stood at the end of the hallway.
“Oh, hello, Charlotte,” she said mildly. “I didn’t think you worked this late. I hope my parents pay you a lot of overtime.”
“I’ll ask again,” Charlotte said, and it was very interesting to watch the woman without her customary polish. Without that obsequious smile, or all that service she clearly prided herself on. Or usually did, anyway. “What are you doing in your mother’s office?”
Jonas had been over there looking at likely embarrassing pictures over the fireplace, and that had given Bethan the idea. She didn’t glance in his direction, because she didn’t want Charlotte to see that he was hiding there, so Bethan only smiled down at the picture she’d swiped from her mother’s desk.
“This was taken on their first date,” she said softly. It was true. She held a picture of her parents takenapproximately a thousand years ago. They were both so young they practically squeaked. And more, they glowed with the offhanded attractiveness of youth. He was handsome and she was pretty, and it was hard to reconcile these strange, bright creatures, who looked as if they were up to a bit of mischief, with her far more restrained parents.
She set the frame back down and turned that smile back on Charlotte. “I remember when I was much younger than they are in this picture. Now I’m older. I guess that’s the way of things, but it feels weird.”
But the housekeeper was staring back at her, still bristling with affront, and did not look particularly charmed by Bethan’s reminiscing. “Mrs. Wilcox does not like anyone in her office.”
Bethan didn’t have to think about hercharacterin this instance. Her smile faded a little as she regarded this woman who looked ready to storm over, put hands on her, and bodily remove her, if necessary.
“Charlotte.” Bethan reminded herself to be kind. “This is my parents’ house. I understand that you work for them, and clearly they have certain expectations of you. But if I want to come in here and look at family pictures because I’m full of nostalgia, that’s what I’m going to do. With or without permission.”
“I’m afraid that’s not acceptable.”
“My little sister is getting married. I brought a man home to meet my father, for the first time ever.” It occurred to her that both of those things might, in fact, be factors in how she was feeling—and she wished she hadn’t said them with Jonas listening. But she pushed on. “It’s an emotional time, Charlotte, and having you try to tell me how to behave in the house where I grew up does not help.”
“The general and Mrs. Wilcox take their privacy very seriously,” the other woman said stiffly.
“They’re welcome to take it up with me, then,” Bethanretorted. But then she summoned her smile again. “Don’t worry, I’ll let myself out.”
And then there was a bit of a staring contest. Bethan felt her eyebrows inch higher and higher on her brow, and for a moment, she thought Charlotte wasn’t going to give in. It made her wonder what the other woman’s actual job here was.
But the longer the silence between them dragged out, the more she could see Charlotte waver. Until finally, she inclined her head sharply, turned with near-military precision, and then stalked away.
Bethan waited until the door closed behind her. Then went over to make sure that she hadn’t simply opened and shut it but stayed inside. But the small hallway was empty. When she came back into the room, it was just in time to watch as Jonas rose from his hiding place.
Like some kind of mythical creature. Lethal. Glorious. A song to be sung, an epic tale to be told.
Settle down, she ordered herself.
“Way to handle the staff,” he said dryly. “I bet they taught you that in finishing school.”
Bethan opted not to argue about the kinds of schools she’d attended. “Something about her rubs me the wrong way. It’s not that I think she’s some kind of operative, necessarily. But I’m their daughter.”
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