Page 5 of Double Take (Cosmic Mates #5)

What the hell had he been thinking approaching her like that?

He hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d been feeling . After traveling halfway across the galaxy to get a glimpse of her, he hadn’t been able to resist talking to her. Now he’d fucked things up worse.

She’d misunderstood his intentions. He would never threaten her; he’d meant to warn her. Divorces were public record. Filing for a dissolution of marriage would announce to the world Mark Hammond was alive. Exposing one agent could expose the entire agency. Dark Ops would take swift action to keep its secrets. When they discovered he’d been the cause of her filing, they’d permanently retire him.

He never should have mentioned the organization—that alone could result in his and her disappearance—but she’d looked at him with such incredulous disdain. Cover stories, disguises, his identity—his whole life was false. For once in his miserable existence, he wanted to tell the truth and tell it to somebody who mattered.

Look at me. See me.

She hadn’t believed him, and he had no way to prove his real identity. As he’d said, DNA wouldn’t do it. Hammond had been cremated, so there was no body to exhume. Ironically, the only person who could prove he wasn’t her husband was Faith herself. She had identified the body at the morgue.

He didn’t know how to prevent her from filing for divorce. Terra Nova was a long way from Earth. It was unlikely she could file this late on a Friday afternoon, and hopefully distance and bureaucracy would hinder her efforts.

The only option now was to give her time to process what he’d said and then approach her again.

He’d never considered that she might not believe him—he hadn’t planned to speak to her! Impulse and longing had overridden his good sense. If he had thought about it, he would have expected shock—although not so much that she’d keel over in a faint. Fortunately, he’d caught her before she hit the stone floor.

He trudged toward the Happy Night Inn. Low-key, laid-back, low-tech Terra Nova would have been the perfect spot to rest and unwind.

He would snap before he unwound.

He greeted the innkeeper at the front desk with a passing wave and went straight to his room. It was tiny but homey and quaint. A patchwork quilt covered the queen bed, and a rag rug lay on the wooden floor. Fresh flowers had been placed in a vase on the dresser. He sank into the easy chair in the corner.

Despite his unease at the turn of events, he felt rejuvenated at having seen Faith. Brown eyes had sparked with ire and disdain, but she looked good. Shorter brunette hair dusted her shoulders and framed her pretty face. She was no longer the dewy-eyed bride she’d been at her wedding; however, the pinched expression in later vids had vanished, making her look younger than her thirty-two years.

In her pottery studio, she had appeared happy doing what she loved. He eyed the bowl on the dresser. His most prized possession reminded him of her—unique. In different light and turned at different angles, the colors changed, reminding him to look beyond the first glance to see what was really there. Faith was as colorful as her pottery. He’d only spent that one evening with her at the gala, but he’d soaked up every second, storing away the flashes of humor, her wry observations, her quick wit. He’d developed a crush through the vids, but once he’d met the real, live woman, he’d fallen in love.

However, he’d failed to peer behind the facade of her marriage. She’d become suspicious near Hammond’s untimely end, but he’d assumed she’d loved him. So, the animosity had come as a surprise, although, in retrospect, it shouldn’t have. She was a sharp, smart lady. It stood to reason she’d see through her late husband’s pretense.

If only she could see him and not Hammond. He’d anticipated her love for her husband to be the roadblock—that he wouldn’t measure up to her one true love. Now he realized he faced the opposite problem. He would always remind her of the man she despised.

The notion he could have any relationship with her was pie in the sky. He might as well wish for a magic genie to appear and send them flying into the sunset on a winged unicorn. She would never love him, nor would Dark Ops permit contact, let alone a relationship. Normally, clones inherited the rights and privileges of the citizen they replaced. However, in his case, he’d replaced a man physically and legally dead. Dark Ops intended for him to stay that way; ergo, Bragg was stuck in no man’s land.

As if his thoughts had shot straight to HQ, his multipurpose device jangled, two short pings followed by a longer ping, the signal he’d assigned to his CO. He did a quick visual sweep to ensure his hotel room was unidentifiable before opening a channel.

“Where the hell are you?” Scowling, Marshall appeared on the screen.

“Patagonia.”

“No, you’re not. You checked out of your hotel a week ago.”

“I wasn’t aware I had to stay at that particular location for the duration of my vacation.”

“You’re supposed to adhere to your approved itinerary.”

“You were checking up on me?”

“You’re lucky it was me and not someone else.”

“I decided to visit a sheep ranch.”

“What the fuck are you doing at a sheep ranch?”

“Shearing sheep. When in Patagonia, do as the Patagonians.”

Marshall swore. “I had a hunch you would do something stupid.”

“I’m shearing sheep!”

“I figured you were up to something when you put in for a furlough.”

“I’m entitled to leave.”

“You’ve never taken any.”

“I am now.”

“I pinged you a half dozen times.”

He hadn’t answered to avoid this conversation because he was, in fact, doing something very stupid. “I’ve been shearing sheep.”

A roar drowned out Marshall’s reply.

Bragg waited until the noise dissipated. “Where the hell are you ?” He noticed that Marshall appeared to be in a parking lot.

“Jetport.”

“Why?”

“The usual reason.”

There were two reasons to go to a jetport—to catch a flight or to speak confidentially.

You couldn’t go anywhere on Earth without being captured on vid—not even Patagonia. Government monitored movement and conversations, but the deafening racket of jetports and spaceports drowned out any audio they could record.

“Listen.” Marshall glanced around. “I have a pretty good idea where you are. I’m advising you to quit while you’re still ahead.”

His CO could guess, but he couldn’t prove it. “There’s still sheep to shear.”

“If you compromise Hammond, you compromise Dark Ops.”

“Speaking on general principle, I’m aware of that.”

“Speaking to your specific situation, you’re fucking lucky I’m your CO.” He paused. “Don’t make me haul you in.”

Marshall’s revelation Faith had joined Cosmic Mates had been the impetus for his flight. He’d suffered unrequited love while Hammond was alive, but the prospect that she might remarry had been a hundred times worse.

“I understand more than you know, and I don’t foresee a good ending,” Marshall said.

Neither did he. A good ending could only involve Faith, which would never occur. He’d be fortunate to escape with just a broken heart. He didn’t trust Marshall or anyone in Dark Ops.

Why risk his limited freedom for a woman who would never love him? Who despised him? Was seeing her in the flesh worth the repercussions?

Yes, yes, it was. “The sheep aren’t going to shear themselves. I have to get back to work.” He closed the communication channel.