Free Bridal Armor by Debra Webb Page A

car.
    “Thanks for the warning.” He climbed the next two with equal caution, just as relieved when he didn’t become a bloody impersonation of the car at the airport.
    “I’m telling you no one knows about this place,” she called out.
    “Uh-huh,” he muttered.
    He knew about it. She knew about it. Whoever had drilled a hole in the taillight might very well know about it.
    He stepped toward the door and a loud pop had his heart lodging in his throat. He turned, watching as nothing more dangerous than a breaking branch fell to the ground with a rattle and whoosh.
    Damn. He was getting edgier by the second.
    Sliding the key into the lock, he murmured a prayer to stay alive just forty-eight more hours. Then the wedding would be over, his family secure and whoever wanted to take their shots could damn well try.
    He unlocked the door and withdrew the key. When silence greeted him he thought nothing had sounded sweeter.
    Jo came stamping up the stairs behind him, her purse over one arm and her duffel slung across her body. “Told you so.”
    “You did,” he conceded, following her inside and only cringing a little as she flipped on the overhead light.
    “Being spooked is understandable,” she said, tossing the car keys onto the kitchen counter.
    “You do realize being so confident only makes me wonder if you orchestrated the bomb and the car chase along with the rest of this.”
    “ Not rehashing that again,” she said, hanging his overcoat on a peg by the door. “We both know you believe me.” She untied her shoes and lined them up with the corner of the couch.
    He’d forgotten her preference for order in the little things.
    “As a general concept maybe.”
    “Good enough for now. Let’s get to work.”
    “I’ll start a fire.” Before he couldn’t feel his feet at all. Kneeling, he reached in and pulled open the flue. Only a bit of snow fell in and it was soon steaming away as the kindling caught. Standing, he toed off his shoes and shrugged off his suit coat, letting the heat sink in.
    “Go on back and get out of those wet clothes,” Jo suggested.
    “In a minute.” He was still braced for the next attack and lounging around in a toga quilt wouldn’t leave him feeling empowered.
    “Well, at least have a Scotch.”
    He turned, smiling at the bottle and glass she held out to him. “You remembered.”
    Five years ago they’d toasted the end of the Isely family in much the same manner after she’d patched him up in a swanky hotel in Austria.
    She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it was just in your file.” She took a slow sip of the two fingers she’d poured for herself and watched him over the rim of her glass.
    It probably was in the file. He decided he didn’t care. The fire and the Scotch smoothed his ragged nerves and started drawing the tension out of his shoulders.
    “I brought some basics for you,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. “Jeans, a sweater and a couple of shirts.”
    He raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how she’d managed that or remembered his size.
    “You’ll find a small overnight case back in the bedroom.”
    “Just in case my luggage got blown up?”
    Was she blushing or was it the alcohol putting that color in her cheeks?
    “I’m embarrassed to say that scenario didn’t even occur to me.”
    “The explosion?” He frowned at her quick nod. “You think it should have?”
    “Maybe.” She hitched a slender shoulder as she stared into the golden liquid left in her glass. “Get changed. When you see the intel I was given, you can fill in the blanks and tell me if I misinterpreted something vital.”
    Thinking on that minor revelation, he padded down the short hall toward the light glowing from an open doorway. If Jo had missed something, it would have been the first time.
    Her instincts were an asset he’d used to the mission’s full advantage in the field. Gazing at the garment bag open on the bed, he realized he’d underestimated her