Page 86 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

It didn’t matter. She said she’d be there, and she would be. She had nowhere to go for a month, and nothing to do but relax. The only thing Georgia had on her agenda was eating lots of pineapple and sleeping in a hammock overlooking the beach.

After Georgia arrived on the big island, she checked herself into the bed and breakfast Peter had suggested in his note, then went for a walk on a quiet section of beach. She stood there, digging her toes into the warm sand, letting the wind tousle her short hair for a long time. When the sun set, unfurling streamers of vibrant reds, yellows, and purples across the sky, she finally let herself cry.

Georgia managed to bury her feet in the sand right up to her ankles. She wiggled her toes, the cool grittiness tickling her, reminding her of where she was. Too often her thoughts drifted back to those black days in Koutu and she would find herself reliving varied moments of terror and fear.

The first few days were calm. She went to bed early and slept late. She walked the beach and soaked up the vivid greenness of the place.

The first dream hit her on her fourth night. She and Peter were being shot at again, and there was blood, so much blood. All of it Peter’s. She tried to help him but couldn’t seem to reach him no matter what she did.

She woke up, alone and in the dark, crying.

The dreams continued, asleep and awake. Anytime her mind was idle. For a while, Georgia thought she was going insane. But after a few days, the frequency of the dreams decreased.

Did Peter go through this every time something awful happened? How could he stand it? How did he survive it?

Georgia snorted at her own stupidity. He survived because he had to, and that was that.

But, oh, how her arms longed to hold him, to comfort him, to ease his nightmares as his presence eased hers.

Week one passed, then week two. Three weeks after she arrived Georgia walked the beach outside the bed and breakfast alone. She pulled her feet out of the sand and shook them gently. One more week and she would go. She’d decided to move to Boulder, Colorado. Buy a little house with some of her money and travel, go to school, then travel some more.

She didn’t believe Peter was coming. Not anymore. She’d come to realize that it wasn’t something a man in his line of work could do, be with someone who knew the good, the bad, and the ugly about him.

She missed him so much it was a constant ache in her chest.

A whisper in the sand had her turning around.

Peter stood, not ten feet away, white pants rolled up to his knees so he could get his feet wet if he wanted.

Had she fallen asleep? Or was this a mirage?

“Peter?”

“Hello, Georgia.”

Georgia opened her mouth, intending to ask an intelligent question or two, but only a surprised squeak came out.

“Have you been...well?” Peter asked. His hands were in his pockets. The light blue cotton shirt he wore made his eyes seem brighter than she remembered. But then, she’d never had a chance to look her fill of him in bright sunshine.

“Yes,” she finally managed to blurt. “You? I mean, how did your surgery go?” She scanned his body, looking for evidence of fatigue and healing injuries.

“I’m...ok.” He shrugged or tried to. Pain streaked across his face at the movement. “They got the bullet out, pumped a bunch of blood into me, and interrogated me until I wasn’t sure of my own name.”

He’d lost weight. She could see it now on his frame. His shoulder blades seemed to stand out more prominently than before under his shirt, and in the shape of his face. Thinner, with shadows under his eyes.

“Oh.” She stood there like a lump. What was wrong with her? She should run to him, grab him with both hands, and never let go. Her mouth was dry, as if the wind had blown half the beach into it. “When...did they release you?”

“About twelve hours ago.” He met her gaze. “I got on the first flight I could get my butt on to get here.”

He hadn’t forgotten. She did mean something to him. She swallowed and licked her parched lips.

The muscles around Peter’s jaw clenched and unclenched.

His hands came out of his pockets and he walked with deliberate, slow steps toward her, not stopping till his chest brushed hers. His hands, caring and calloused, came up to cup her face.

He looked down at her for a long moment before slowly lowering his head so he could kiss her forehead. His mouth moved over her face, kissing her eyes, nose and cheeks before brushing a chaste kiss on her lips.

“I missed you,” he said, his voice low and shaky.

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