Free Flashpoint by Suzanne Brockmann Page A

smiled. “You’re good at lying.”
    “Thank you,” she said. “I think.” Of course, coming from the Liar King, that was probably the highest praise.
    They were both silent then. So exactly how did they meet, Tess the law student and James the head of a not-for-profit organization, three very short weeks ago?
    That particular detail—three weeks and then, bang, a wedding—still seemed weak to Tess.
    Across the table, Nash rubbed his forehead.
    “Headache?” she asked.
    “Yeah.” He smiled ruefully. “Hangover.”
    Ah. “It might help if you drink some water.” She fished in her bag for the extra bottle she’d bought at the airport, slid it across the desk to him. “Here.”
    She’d surprised him. “Wow,” he said. “I’m—” He shook his head. “Thanks.”
    “How about if I was doing work-study as a legal assistant for a firm—you know, pro bono law for not-for-profit groups,” Tess said as he opened the bottle and drank. “Maybe one of our clients was People First. And that’s how we met.”
    “No,” he said, wiping his mouth with his hand. “I mean, yes, that’s excellent, but let’s not have your firm connected with People First. It would be too easy for someone to check and see that there’s no record of . . . We could do it if we had more time to set it up, but we’re on a plane to Kazabek in just a few hours. Let’s say instead that you hadn’t heard of PF until you met me. What if . . . you had a meeting with a pro bono client who was attending that same conference. Your meeting was in the hotel bar.”
    “But he didn’t show,” Tess said.
    “Yeah. I walked in, saw you sitting there alone, and it was love at first sight. And here we are, three weeks later. Married.”
    Tess looked at Jimmy Nash, with his perfect hair, his bedroom eyes, his broad shoulders, and his washboard abs—oh, she couldn’t see them now, but she knew they were there beneath his shirt. “Is anyone really going to believe that? We meet and we’re married in just a few weeks?”
    “Yeah, and it’ll help explain why we don’t know each other all that well. That’s important, unless you want to spend hours on the flight memorizing brands of toothpaste and deodorant, favorite foods, favorite movies, whether you like anchovies on your pizza—”
    “Definitely not—to both of those things. The memorizing and the anchovies.”
    “I figured as much,” he said. “The anchovies, I mean.”
    “I suppose you like them.”
    “Absolutely. Live large, I always say.”
    “Anchovies are small. And awful,” Tess pointed out. “And people don’t really get married after knowing each other for only a few weeks.”
    “Sometimes they do. We’re going to Kazabek, Tess, not L.A. There’s not a lot of premarital sex happening there. People get married before they get busy—and likewise, people who want to get busy get married first. You know, women have been sentenced to death for adultery there—even women who were raped.”
    Tess nodded. “I do know. I’ve read the packet of information on Kazbekistan that Tom Paoletti gave me.”
    “Then you also know that their women’s rights movement has recently regressed about two hundred years,” he said.
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Whenever you’re outside, you need to be covered.” Nash had on that same concerned face she’d first seen in the car, two months ago, on the way to rescue Decker at the Gentlemen’s Den. He was using the same commanding officer voice. These were orders he was giving, not suggestions. “Down to your ankles and wrists and up to your neck.”
    “So much for my budding career as a topless waitress.”
    Nash was not amused. “I’m serious.”
    “That’s very apparent.”
    “Even if it’s a hundred degrees in the shade.”
    “I’m clear on that,” Tess told him. She resisted the urge to salute.
    “You’ll have to carry a scarf whenever you go out, too,” he said. “In case you’re stopped and asked to cover your