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Minegold continues, “She gave her statement in Rome and hurried to London, where she’s been living for several months, cooperating with Interpol and living in a secure flat that’s next to an agent’s. Because of her, they’ve been able to connect a string of deaths to Delgado—only he doesn’t know that yet. They must have a very solid case before they can risk it, especially if they try him for multiple murders and he gets off. Then he cannot be tried again for any of them. For now, they have Delgado on something else—tax evasion or fraud, something like that, I think. Once they hit him with a murder charge, all the excrement will hit the fan. When Therese left, Delgado believed she knew nothing about his criminal or sacrificial activities. After charges are presented—that won’t be the case.”

My admiration for the lady goes up. She must be one cool customer. “So, if she is being followed, I’m supposed to pose as what? Her handler and get her to some safe house? Won’t they think it’s odd that she has a bodyguard if she doesn't know her husband is a criminal?”

There’s a waffling hesitation in Jakob’s voice. “No, no one must know that you’re the bodyguard. You’re supposed to be the sweet, small-town man she left Delgado for.”

“What?”

“Wear a nice suit, Reggie. You might have to star in an off-off-Broadway production this evening. You play the groom.”

I hesitate. I’m never going to get married. I long for deep emotional connections, but lack the soul to create them. I rarely speak. Women like communication.

But Minegold? He’s suave. Elegant. A widower. He knows how to be married.

“Why don’tyoudo it? Take her back to your house, and—”

“I cannot protect her in direct sunlight. I’m too easy to harm with fire or sunlight.Youare indestructible. You are also, no offense, far more the picture of a small-town, blue collar sort. You’re actually a plumber, for heaven’s sake!”

“But I don’t know how to fake being someone’s brand-new husband!”

“Take her to dinner. Laugh at her jokes! Fix up the house with her. Newlyweds do those sorts of things.”

“I would imagine there’d be a lot more laying pipe that’s related to consummation than actual plumbing,” I snap.

“Then look besotted when you’re in public.”

I want to refuse, but something sears in my chest.

My oath. To protect.

The promises I made when I said goodbye to Artie Sloane on his deathbed. He always treated me like a person. I told him I would always protect his family. He went with pictures of all his children and grandchildren by his bedside—adopted or otherwise, they were all his out of love.

Maybe I was jealous that a man with such a huge heart made me—and yet never figured out how to give me even a fraction of what he was capable of feeling.

“I don’t want to do this—but I’ll do it.”

“The agents will walk Therese through her paces. You just provide cover and protection that they can’t possibly deliver. They’ll tell us the next steps. I’ll see you at four. Oh, and mazel tov. I hope you and Ms. LaFontaine, formerly Delgado, will be very happy together.”

I hang up and step straight into the shower. I’m going to have to pack. Find my suit and hope it’s not too wrinkled. Oh, yeah, and learn how to look happy. I’m supposedly meeting my new bride this afternoon.

Chapter Three

“It’s all so sudden!” I keep saying the phrase in a breathless, cheery voice. The level of breathiness indicates how close I am to passing out. Whenever I get too close, Kim Argyle, goddess of an Interpol agent and answer to all my prayers, squeezes my hand calmly and gushes, “You’re doing the right thing! You don’t get a second chance at true love!”

Or some other total bullshit that I no longer believe.

I had a whirlwind romance. When I met Matteo Delgado, I was at a destination bachelorette party in Miami. It was my best friend’s bachelorette weekend, and it was the first time I’d ever left my home state—even though I was almost twenty-five.

That’s right. At twenty-five, I had reached the height of small-town country girl cliches. I had been a cheerleader. I competed in the Miss Bayou Pageant. My college diploma came from Louisiana Agricultural and Career College, where every other degree conferred was in animal science or agriculture. I was one of thirteen people in a class of three thousand who graduated with a computer science degree.

I was bored, horny as hell, and tired of turning down boys pretending to be men. You know the kind, the ones with belt buckles bigger than what’s under the zipper, tobacco-stained teeth, and deer musk on their work boots.

My mother called me “uppity” and warned me that perky boobs and short-skirt thighs weren’t going to last. In her opinion, I needed to marry a steady local guy who would helpme pop out some grandbabies for her before I hit thirty. Even my besties told me I should give the local guys another look and stop drooling over the polished, devastatingly tall, dark, and handsome men on the covers of myBillionaire Bad Boyromance series.

As I sit staring out the tiny airplane window, my mind spins in circles, focusing on my marital mistakes.

My mother was right. (I hate that so much.) I should have stuck to the local guys. Most of them were decent-looking and nice enough. Most of them were superstitious and a little bit sexist. If they’d ever found out that my Grandmere knew about magic and could hex or bless people, they would have crossed to the other side of the street whenever they saw me coming.

Still, I wouldn’t havehadto tell anyone my family’s secrets. Heck, I barely knew them until all of this hit the fan. I thought my grandparents were just superstitious.