Page 49 of Special Ops Seduction

Bethan led him to a door and paused, cocking her head as if she were trying to hear through the wall. She opened the door slowly, carefully, then poked her head through. The jerk of her chin was his only indication that he should follow her, and so he did. And found himself in a more narrow, less openly splendid part of the big house.

“These are the servants’ quarters,” she told him as they moved. And he knew she was deep in mission space, because she didn’t even make a rueful remark at that. Or about the fact she’d grown up like this. Like a princess, when he was—

It doesn’t matter what you were, he snapped at himself.There is no you and Bethan to worry about.

And she was still talking. “I figure we can either go rifling through guest rooms, or I can go straight to the source.”

“What’s the source?”

She looked back at him then, smiling faintly. “My mother is very particular, especially about parties. Which means I know that she keeps a master list of which guests are in which rooms, and that list usually includes likes and dislikes, gifts left for them if my father’s trying to make an especially big impression, and any other hostess information she deems important.”

“You want to break into your parents’ room?”

He was fine with that. Just surprised that it was her move during this wedding week.

“I could.” And he thought she might have laughed if they hadn’t been standing in this strange little hallway, whispering. “Ellen and I used to do it for fun. Mostly to prove that we could, because it felt like a major rebellion. But no, I’m not going to drag you into the general’s bedchamber. My mother’s office will do just fine.”

And then he was following her again as she moved nimbly down this back hall, making almost as little noise as he did. Something he had the impression she hadn’t learned in the army but here. In this very same hallway. A general’s daughter who wanted to make sure she could conduct her mischief as she saw fit.

It made him feel something like nostalgic for a childhood he’d never had. For this notion, on parade this whole week, that this was what family was supposed to be. Not the pretense of endless harmony, or even mandated friendliness. But that no matter what, they could make each other laugh with old stories like this one. That they could come together and act right, however briefly. That there was a shared idea of what the family was, and everyone participated in it.

When he thought about his family it was never a shared thing. It was always solitary and sad, no matter who else was there. It was always hunkered down in the back of a crappy old car, wishing the temperature would drop low enough that he would just die and get it over with.

He was seized with the urge to shout that at her, as if it were her fault—

Or maybe you’re tired of holding on to it, something in him suggested.Like some kind of sick vigil for people who forgot you. Regularly. While you were right there.

And that was even worse.

But there was no time to think about it. Because Bethan was moving swiftly, and she was just as lethal in bare feet and a dress that ended above her knees as she was in full tactical gear. She wasn’t holding a weapon, but the intensity of how she held herself and how she moved made him think that a gun or knife would have been entirely superfluous.

And he supposed it was his curse that the Bethan that turned him on most of all was the lethal one, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise now.

She led him out of the servants’ hall and into part of the house he hadn’t been in before. It was obvious that this wasn’t for staff. The halls were too airy. There were suddenly fancy rugs, art he didn’t have to be able to make sense of to know was priceless, and the faint sound of classical music from somewhere he couldn’t quite identify.

She took him down from the second floor to the first. He wasn’t surprised to see that they’d circled around so that they were closer to the greenhouse out back. Rugs and polished wood gave way to graceful stone, and she led him toward what appeared to be a wall of windows. During the day he imagined he would be able to look out at the greenhouse and the hills that rose up behind the house. But tonight, she led him down the airy hall of windows set with glass on hinges, all open to let the night air in. And at the end of it, she opened a large wooden door, very carefully.

“It squeaks,” she whispered over her shoulder.

She waved him in, then carefully closed the door behind them. There was another, shorter hall, and then Jonas found himself in the kind of elegant room that likely had a name, because all these sorts of places did.Solarium.Conservatory.Something normal people didn’t have. There were books arranged, not shoved in tight, on shelves. Low couches in vibrant fabrics with throws and pillows just so. Incidental tables piled high with collections of books and objects that all managed to create a kind of harmonious feel without giving the suggestion of clutter.

“Why does your mother need an office?” he asked.

“You have no idea how much time she spends handling the various boards she’s on,” Bethan replied. “It’s a full-time job. Besides, sometimes I think she just wants a little space that’s only hers. I can’t blame her.”

She headed for the desk that stood against one wall and bent over it, looking through the items on the desktop with purpose.

Jonas found himself drawn against his will to the fireplace on one end of the seating area. It was a decorative number with a huge flowering plant where there ought to have been logs, but it was the mantel that got his attention.

Because it was cluttered with pictures. The general and Mrs. Wilcox when they were young. And later, accepting awards and commendations from various military and political superstars.

He filed those away, but what interested him were the family pictures. Not the family—her.

Bethan as a girl, all freckles and that madcap grin of hers. Bethan in her army uniform, clearly straight out of basic training. Bethan and her sister, mugging for the camera on some bench with the sea in the background.

Bethan throughout the ages, captured forever in these pictures. And collected here, as if to taunt him.

He didn’t think a single picture had ever been taken of him as a child, much less saved. Or displayed. And he didn’t feel sorry for himself about that, because he’d always thought such things were silly. That no one really cared that much to look at them anyway.

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