Page 20 of Near Miss

“Dammit, don’t you think I know that? Why do ya think I’ve come to ya, man?” Lachlan could hear his accent thicken. He took another sip of his Scotch and struggled for control. His ghosts began to whisper in his ear. “At least look into the rumor of a US supplier.”

If Lucas wouldn’t help him, he’d continue on his own. Some shitty bastard out there was betraying his countrymen, and more innocent people would die.

More betrayal. More bloodshed.

Maybe this time, he could keep it from happening.

Sophia smiled her thanks as Jared handed her a glass of chardonnay he’d gotten from the event bar set up just past the entrance to the gallery. She peered around at the eclectic mix of well-to-do art patrons, corporate suits, and retired couples with both money and time on their hands. There was no sign of Lachlan.

“You look amazing.” Jared’s appreciative gaze had her glancing down at her black dress. It had three-quarter sleeves and an off-shoulder neckline and fell just above the knee.

A self-conscious laugh escaped her. She enjoyed dressing up and feeling sexy but stunk when it came to handling male attention. No wonder her sex life was non-existent. She bolted like a scared rabbit whenever a man made his interest known.

Deep down, she feared making herself vulnerable only to have her lover realize she wasn’t all that interesting. It’s not like her parents had gushed over her dance and piano recitals when she was young, her academic honors in high school, her acceptance into a prestigious college, or any other achievements in her life. She’d learned to be satisfied with her own sense of accomplishment.

“This exhibit is incredible.” She turned the conversation away from her to a safer subject. The reception highlighted visiting Scottish artists, their pieces ranging from bold splashes of color in contemporary and abstract styles to more traditional still life and landscape pieces.

It made sense that Lachlan had received an invitation. Would he show?

Her wine glass halted on its way to her lips. If she was honest with herself, her reasons for inviting herself to the reception were only partly related to her business with Admiral Dane. Her body came alive in Lachlan’s presence, yearned for his touch, responded to his scent. That heated stare he’d given her in the elevator had been predatory and all male. She hadn’t wanted to bolt from Lachlan. He was the first drop on a roller coaster, both terrifying and exhilarating. And addictive.

She wanted more.

Jared’s cell belted out a series of rings. He dug it out of his suit pocket and put it to his ear. “Jared Landry. Yes, Congressman Mitchell.” Whatever the congressman said had Jared’s forehead creasing. “One second, sir.” He held the phone down by his hip and met Sophia’s curious stare. “Sorry, I need to take this. Why don’t you have a look around.” He returned the phone to his ear, heading for the gallery entrance before she could reply.

“Well, okay then.” She took another sip of her wine. Might as well enjoy the art and see if Lachlan was anywhere in the crowd.

She strolled in the direction of one of the Scottish artists, an older gentleman with a trim, white beard, a jaunty tartan square poking out of his jacket’s breast pocket. Behind him hung oil landscapes of rocky shorelines and crashing waves, tiny cottages dotting the background.

Continuing further into the exhibit space, she browsed the art and scanned the growing crowd for familiar faces, finding none. She’d made it to the back wall when a painting grabbed her attention and drew her in as surely as if it was a giant magnet, pulling her irresistibly closer.

From its look, it was an oil painting of a historic battle—Scottish Highlanders versus British Redcoats. Vivid slashes of red, blue, green, and brown clothed the combatants. The pride and determination the artist had painted on the faces of the charging Highlanders was unmistakable.

Sophia’s gaze fixed on the central figure, a Highlander with flowing black hair leading his men into battle, broadsword raised high in one hand, a shield in the other. A Spartan of his time. Four bright purple sprigs of heather sprouted from the top of the clan badge pinned to the tartan draping the Highlander’s shoulder like a lover’s token. But it was his face—those sharp cheekbones, firm jaw, and piercing eyes—that had her taking a huge gulp of her wine.

Forget Prince Charming on a white horse. Maybe what she needed was a Highlander in a kilt wielding a sword. He was breathtaking.

And he looked like Lachlan.

The wine went down the wrong way, seizing her lungs. Heads turned her way. Her face on fire, she moved to the edge of the exhibit to discreetly cough away the liquid she’d aspirated.

Movement in the back corner of the room caught her eye. Curiosity had her squinting to get a better look.

Was that? She practically leaped behind one of the demi-walls. She’d been thinking about Lachlan, and now she’d conjured him up during a wine-induced coughing fit. Once she could breathe without hacking up a lung, she peered around the wall for a better look.

Itwashim.

Lachlan spoke with another man almost as tall as he was, with neatly trimmed black hair. The other man looked older, maybe in his late forties or early fifties, but she couldn’t tell from her vantage point.

She squinted some more. Lachlan’s expression held an urgency to it as he spoke. The other man listened, his face giving nothing away. Whatever they were discussing, she seriously doubted it had anything to do with art.

As if sensing her stare, Lachlan glanced in her direction. She scrambled back behind the wall, her heart tripping. Had he seen her?

Her stomach churned. If Admiral Dane was right about Lachlan, this man might be his accomplice. She should try to sneak a photo of the two of them together and send it to the admiral.

What if Lachlan looked over again and caught her in the act? How would she explain herself?

She’d have to chance it. Even a blurry photo would be better than none.

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