Page 57 of Ardently Yours

I take a slow breath, but don’t take it from her hand. “Do I need to reschedule my parents’ visit?”

She hesitates. “Would it be a problem? I didn’t bring the right clothes or . . .”

She doesn’t need special clothing to have lunch at home. But I don’t press the point. “I’ll tell them there was a mix-up with the schedule. You’ll meet them at the masquerade in a few weeks, anyway.”

She nods. “How did it go with Henry?”

I scratch the back of my head. “Surprisingly well. He was in a great mood after we left the doctor’s office.”

“Good.” She takes a breath and squeezes my hand. “I have to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” My tone is utterly neutral.

“What exactly did Steve do for his job?”

I freeze for several critical seconds, thrown by the unexpected subject. Then years of experience in high-pressure situations takes over. I lift an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

Her mouth tightens. “Phyllis said something about him. She also mentioned some things about the Vinucci situation that didn’t sound like what the news reported. She told me a lot of your people died undercover.”

Phyllis is going to require a serious conversation about nondisclosures and consequences for creating what could be a major security breach. She likely assumed Charlotte knows more than she does. It’s not an acceptable excuse.

“I’m going to need your promise that you’ll keep the information you heard to yourself. There are people who would be put at risk if it were made public,” I say evenly.

Her brows lift in the center. “I swear it. But was Steve one of those people?”

I fall back on rote response. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of his employment.”

Fire sparks behind her eyes. “You do not use that lawyer voice on me. Don’t avoid the question or talk to me in fine print. He told me he was a clerk. Did he lie to me?” Her voice is low and slow.

I straighten. Not even my grandfather spoke to me in the tone Charlotte is using. Yet here she stands. Five-foot-seven if she leaves her shoes on. No family name or money to grease the wheels. No friends in power, if she doesn’t count me.

In short, she isn’t in a position to demand a damn thing.

But she’s Charlotte. So I answer the question. “He wasn’t a clerk. Steve’s official job title was Executive Protection Agent. He was trained as a security specialist to provide intelligence regarding threats to my family and, when necessary, other at-risk parties. He was part of a team that provided strategic risk assessment and intervention.”

She puts a hand to her stomach. “Undercover? Like your people who died in the war with the Vinuccis?”

“He wasn’t a state or federal employee. He was mine. But he came after that time, regardless.”

Her throat moves on a swallow. “Was what he did against the law?”

I frown.“Of course not.”

I guide her until her back is flush against the stone wall behind her. Her free hand lands on my waist, twisting in my shirt, and her eyes dilate. I’m close enough that the warmth of her breath strikes the skin beneath my jaw.

“Why did you ask me if it was illegal?”

She swallows hard. “Steve didn’t tell me about his job. He wanted to find evidence against Polford. I thought . . . it was stupid.”

“There are legal means of investigation. My team have done things that required creativity and, sometimes, a fine understanding of the letter of the law, but we haven’t crossed the line. There’s no excuse good enough for it. It makes us no better than they are.”

She closes her eyes and nods. When she speaks, the words are a whisper. “Why didn’t Steve tell me about his job?”

“Maybe he would have.”

“When?”

“He was planning to move to full-time hours in January,” I say.

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