Page 5 of Double Bind (Cosmic Mates #6)

While Amity changed into her nightclothes in the lavatory, Marshall stripped to his briefs, extinguished the light, and fumbled his way to the bed.

Dinner had been noncombative. Congenial, even. He’d surprised himself by opening up to her. He hadn’t intended to say so much—only to apologize. Once he’d recovered from the panic attack, he realized his abrupt departure must have given her the wrong impression. They had too many strikes against them to allow a misunderstanding to mushroom into a major incident. More introvert than extrovert, he’d never been much of a conversationalist, but he found her easy to talk to.

He hoped the détente would continue. He had no wish to revert to cold silences broken only by snide remarks delivered with a scowl.

The lav panel slid open, and Amity stood in the doorway. The nightgown covered her from neck to toe, leaving only head and feet bare, yet heat rolled through him. My wife. A wife in name only, but they’d be sharing a bed. She was an attractive woman, and, when she wasn’t sniping at him, pleasant company, too.

She shut the lav light off, plunging the cabin into darkness. “Marco!” she called out.

“Who?”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Polo.’”

“Why?”

“So, I can find the bed. I can’t see.”

“Oh. Polo!”

He heard shuffling.

“Marco!” Her voice came from right beside the bed.

“Polo!” He scooted over so she could climb in.

“Of course, you never played Marco Polo.” She tugged the covers up to her chin.

“It’s a game played in the dark?” he guessed. She smells good.

“In a swimming pool. It’s a kids’ game. One child is blindfolded or keeps his eyes closed and tries to tag another player, finding him by sound.”

One of many games he hadn’t played, having been denied a childhood. “I’ve played poker.” Operatives played cards during downtime, ostensibly for recreation, but the game allowed them to practice masking emotions and controlling reactions. “I have a very good poker face.”

“I’ll bet you do! Remind me never to play cards with you,” she said.

“I’d let you win sometimes,” he offered magnanimously.

“Oh, you would, would you?” Her light, tinkling laugh caused his heart to ache and his groin to tighten. She was so close he could feel her body heat.

“Dinner was nice,” she said.

“It was,” he replied, unsure what she referred to. The food? Their conversation? He’d enjoyed dinner a lot more before Bragg and Faith had arrived.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For sharing your experience with me. And…for marrying me so I could get sanctuary. You sacrificed for me, and I wasn’t exactly grateful.”

Not grateful at all, but that was water under the bridge. “You didn’t have any good options, and the way it all happened wasn’t optimal. I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“You made a good-faith effort.”

She had no idea how close she’d come to dying. He shuddered at how close he’d come to making a near-fatal mistake. He’d almost not gone back for her.

Certain Rogers and Glenn had already gotten to her and disposed of her, he’d been about to launch the spacecraft, but Faith had refused to leave without her. Bragg wouldn’t go without Faith. Marshall had considered leaving them behind, unwilling to risk his freedom and safety any longer.

Cursing himself for being all kinds of a fool, he’d returned to Willow Wood to look for Amity, not because Faith had insisted but because of an irrational, emotional what-if . She was dead. He believed that. But if by some unfathomable chance Rogers and Glenn hadn’t gotten to her yet, he couldn’t abandon her. The sweet, sexy woman he’d taken to dinner had left an indelible mark.

He’d checked her cottage first and found it ransacked. From there, he ran to All Fired Up. Through the window, he spotted Rogers and Glenn trashing the place. It gave him the first glimmer of hope she might still be alive—but also let him know he didn’t have much time.

The only other place left to look was Faith’s.

And there she was.

With Dark Ops likely to appear at any second, there was no time to explain or persuade. He’d knocked her out with a tranquilizer and carried her and Faith’s cat to the ship. She’d regained consciousness on the spaceship zooming toward Refuge. He’d explained what had happened, but instead of being thankful, she’d been furious, her anger unabated until now.

Hopefully.

“What hurt so much was that I had believed your interest was genuine. Instead, you used me,” she said in a small voice.

“I’m sorry.” The apology sounded so inadequate.

He had liked her a lot, but he hadn’t allowed it to deter him from pursuing his goal. And the brutal truth was that if he hadn’t used her to find John, they’d all be dead—her, him, Faith, and John. Probably the cat, too. But that didn’t mitigate his guilt for treating her badly. “I’m an asshole.”

She hesitated and then said with a sigh, “No, you’re not.”

“You had to think about it.”

“I was mad. My feelings were hurt. But you did save my life. You risked your freedom to save John. An asshole wouldn’t do that.”

“A momentary lapse in assholeness.” However, he’d always had an avuncular affection for the man, had felt responsible for him. Marshall had known the man’s progenitor, Mark Hammond. Now, there was an asshole.

While Bragg could imitate Hammond perfectly—his smirk, his swagger, his patronizing tone—his own nature was completely the opposite. Innately good, he’d retained his humanity and conscience. He hadn’t been corrupted by Dark Ops. He loved Faith. He would have willingly sacrificed anything for her. Marshall had been the one in command, but Bragg was the man Marshall aspired to be.

“Then be someone better. You have choices now,” she said.

“I can’t undo what’s already been done.”

“But you don’t have to double down. You can do better today and better still tomorrow.”

Could it be that simple? Would it be enough? “I want to do right by you.”

“That’s a great way to start.” Humor resonated in her voice.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said.

“You think that because you’re catching me on a good day.”

Despite himself, he chuckled. He’d been on the receiving end of her disdain and fury. She wasn’t all sugar and spice. She reminded him of a rose. Pretty and sweet-smelling, but beware the thorns.

Or a fine whiskey. Smooth, until the afterburn lit your throat on fire.

He hadn’t foreseen marrying a woman, a near-stranger who’d only married him because she’d been out of options. But field ops rarely went perfectly. Perhaps this marriage wasn’t a complete disaster, only a wrinkle requiring a pivot.

If a wife had been part of the post-escape plan, he would have picked someone just like Amity. With that, an idea took root. Why not play the hand he’d been dealt? They’d known each scarcely more than a week, been married less than a day. Who knew how things could change over time?

“It’s going to be an interesting year,” he said, more eager to see the future unfold. “I hope we can be friends.”

“That’s me—ever the friend,” she said sharply.

“I meant it in a positive way.” Why would she take offense? He didn’t understand women.

“Of course. Everyone means it that way.” She sighed. “We should be friends. I would hate to spend our fake marriage fighting.”

Fake? He’d never considered their marriage fake, just temporary, expedient. “No, I don’t want to fight,” he said.

She yawned. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“That it has. Try to get some sleep,” he said.

“Good night, Marshall.”

“Good night, Amity.” Fake marriage? He rolled over and stared into the darkness.