Page 35 of Scarlet Angel

Golden highlights frame her porcelain skin. She speaks of scars, but the longer I drink her in, the more transparent her scars become. The freckles along her cheeks and nose soften her hard edges.

Today, she’s opted for a button-down that’s unbuttoned tantalizingly low and tucked into a body-hugging skirt. She’s not aiming to be sexy but fuck me if she isn’t. Sadly, I shall be fucking myself tonight in the shower, because she certainly has no desire to do so. Quite unfortunate, that reality.

She’s got it all. Intelligence, resilience, and fortitude wrapped in a delectable package. It’s best I stick to women I’m only physically attracted to and sidestep a complex woman. Too great a chance I’ll cock things up. Besides, I’ve watched many a mate fall for someone who’s more than just a pretty face, and it ends in divorce or a miserable marriage.

Still, the more I learn about Scarlet, she becomes less of a resource and more of someone I wish to protect. She’s tough, but those communicative eyes of hers unmask the emotions she restrains. When she shared with me what she’d been through with that bastard of a husband, she stayed calm while fury roiled my veins. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, and watching her fight to maintain that shield gutted me. It’s a good job she ended the wanker because otherwise, I’d itch to accomplish the task. But she doesn’t need a man for protection. She’s strong. She dropkicks bastards for sport.

“You trust these men?” She’s been standing to my side, quietly watching, but waits until the automobile nears the fountain to ask.

“I do. When they’re not investigating me, I do.” I grin, letting her know I’m half-serious.

She narrows her eyes, judging me, no doubt.

“You must trust them if you let them come to your home. And you’re not armed.”

“Home is as safe as anywhere. It’s the reason I bought so much land. And I had them park in the village, change cars to one of mine, and sent them the long way.”

“I thought you said you trust them?”

“I trust them. They’re white-hat blokes. The precaution is for the less savory parties that might not take kindly to my meeting with Interpol officers.”

“Why take the risk?”

“It’s not much of a risk. If anyone asks, they show their cards about monitoring me when they shouldn’t. And it’s easy enough to explain away.”

Inquisitive eyes ask for more.

“The smart man plays all sides,” I explain. It’s an axiom for the modern age. The reason corporations and the well-heeled donate to both political parties in all modern countries.

Her arm crosses over her midriff, below her breasts, lifting the pair rather nicely.

“How do I know you’re not playing me?”

“We have the same goal.”

I force my gaze upward from her breasts to meet bright green eyes that say she’s alert and ready to rumble.

Outside, the Land Rover has stopped and the doors are opening, so sadly, there’s no time to play.

“We both want those bastards to pay. Ergo, we’re on the same team, love.”

She has questions. It’s clear from the way she thoughtfully touches her chin. She studies everyone and everything. It’s always the quiet ones you should never underestimate.

The two men rambling up the path are dressed for a day in the country, in boots and denims. They’ve left their jackets in the car. Doesn’t appear as if they’re carrying, not that I expected them to bring a gun to a friendly chat.

Ash, the head of my security, would’ve followed them if he suspected anything unruly.

“Shall we greet our guests?” I ask her.

She trails behind me with a deceptively timid posture. She’s not fooling me. If threatened, the fiery ginger will turn feral. The meek display may have gotten her far back home, but I see right through the act.

Tristan Wagner, or Nomad or whatever concocted alias he uses, scans the grounds. With his auburn hair, trimmed beard, wire-rimmed sunglasses, and confident swagger, he could be cast as a television detective. His head tilts upward, and I’d wager he’s scanning the roofline and perimeter for security.

He won’t find any. I value my privacy. Security mans the gate, and there’s an invisible red light around the perimeter that sends an alert when anything crosses it. It’s not a perfect system, as wildlife crosses regularly. False alarms keep the on-site security hopping.

The older chap with a pouch is Nigel Wilkins. His official Interpol capacity is within the State and Local Police Liaison group, but he manages a group that specializes in gathering intelligence through discreet, clandestine initiatives. It’s decidedly impressive he’s here in person. Nigel must view me as high-value, as mingling with assets is well below his pay grade. Or perhaps it’s the ginger by my side who has lured him out of his office tower.

“Thought you’d have a dog running up to greet us,” Tristan says.

---