Page 110 of Red Line

“A month?” She shrugged, looking back at him. “Six weeks?”

“But that’s R&R, right? Or are you working out of Langley?”

“I’m lying in a hammock with a ginger beer in my hand, a book resting open in my lap, while I enjoy the tall trees of a very old forest, preferably on a mountain with a babbling brook. Perhaps I can go to town—where I don’t speak the language, so I don’t have to talk to anyone—and have some lovely woman with magic fingers massage my feet.”

“I didn’t know that was your kink.” Nomad paused, then said speculatively, “I have some time accrued. I could go to the mountains with you and do the foot rubbing if you’d like. Ginger beer’s not my thing, but I bet I could find something else to drink.”

She lifted her hips and twisted in the seat so she could better look at him.

“I’d like to get to know you better,” Nomad said. “I’m totally into you when you’re high adrenaline. But you can’t always be functioning in that mode. I’d like to know who you are half-awake in a hammock.”

“Are you the same in the field and in your private life?” Red asked. “I’d like to know things about you, too.”

“Like?”

“Having known my share of operators, I guess I’d like to know if you’re the kind of man that squirms in his seat looking for the next rush.”

“Fair. What do you think the answer is?”

“If you’re a pipe hitter that never lets down, you’re masking it well.” She canted her head speculatively. “Yeah, it would be nice if you could join me.”

“Here’s a question for you along those same lines: What name will you check in under at the guest house? Will I be getting to know the real you or another pseudonym and the personality that goes with it?”

“Me.” Red put her hand to her chest. “I’m Anaïs Rousseau. Johnna Red isn’t me. It’s merely a lotion that I wear like sunscreen.”

A smile spread across Nomad’s face as if he was charmed by the visual. “How’s that?”

“I’m protecting my skin. I don’t want to get burned.” She smiled back at him. “Are you able to share your name, or will you remain Nomad?”

“I prefer you call me Nomad. It’s been decades since I went by my given name.”

“Rumpelstiltskin?”

“Close. Algernon Kesling.”

“And your family likes you?” Red laughed.

“Yeah, actually, they really do.” He squeezed her hand. “What was that look?”

“What?” Red blinked innocently.

“You wrinkled your nose. You don’t like the name Algernon?”

“I read a book once,Flowers for Algernon. And I was remembering that. I liked the name a lot, but I didn’t like what happened in the book. It made me sad and—I don’t know—uneasy.”

“Ah, I see. But you like me.” There was no question in his tone.

“I extra like you. Absolutely.” They smiled at each other like teenagers, and it felt strange but exciting. “What did they call you as a kid?”

“Leeland. My middle name.

“I bet when you were a kid, your schoolmates called you Greenland.”

“Iceland. But it’s the same genre of funny.”

“I love Iceland. It’s rugged and beautiful.” Red replayed those words in her head. He would hear her inserting his name into that phrase. Good. It was what she was inferring. She watched his reaction, which was amusement and warmth. “I think they had you pegged—Nomad seems—”

Red stopped. Adrenaline was shooting through her system. She grabbed at the dial and cranked the volume.

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