Page 19 of New Storm Rising
I probably really should not have come on this journey in this outfit. Earlier, down in the station’s common room, I had already seen several women throw lusty glances at my man, without my being able to do a thing about it! If only I weren’t wearing trousers! But what choice did I really have?
Darn Rikkard bloody Ambrose! Only he would turn his honeymoon into a bloody business trip!
And only I would be stupid enough to come along.
Stupid enough, and…in love enough.
Damn and blast!
But then again…a business trip?
I snorted.
If this was a normal business trip, my name was Olga G. Gogglesworth![8]
Images of the smouldering ship, the cursing Spaniards and the newspaper headlines flitted past my inner eye. Darn bloody Mr Ambrose! It was all his fault! Dragging me into this mess! Giving me permanent seasickness! Even making my nose itch! It was all his fault, and…and…
And he wasn’t here.
It was my honeymoon, I was in my bed, alone, and he wasn’t here.
And I missed him.
Bloody son of a bachelor! Once I got my hands on him, I would give him a good slap upside the head, and…and…
And the door creaked open.
Stiffening, I sucked in a breath. Someone was sneaking into my room?
Who was feeling suicidal tonight?
Making sure to use the arm that was well-hidden under the blankets, I slid my hand underneath the pillow, reaching for my favourite cuddle toy. The one with six bullets in it. My ears listened intently for any sound, and thus the swift, almost silent footsteps approaching the bed didn’t escape me. My grip tightened on the handle of the gun, and—
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs Ambrose.”
I froze.
That voice. That cool, composed, powerful voice.
He was here! He had come for me!
Suddenly, I felt moisture at the corner of my eyes.
Heck! Why the blazes am I crying all of a sudden? Why am I feeling this bloody strange? This isn’t me! It’s as if some bloody parasite took me over! What on earth is going on?
Before I could follow up on that question, I felt the mattress sink beneath me and a certain someone climb into bed beside me. An arm of granite-hard muscle slid around my waist, pulling me back against his warm, chiselled chest. Back into his embrace.
“Sleep, Mrs Ambrose,” a commanding voice whispered into my ear. “Sleep.”
“Screw you!” I muttered, sniffling. And nevertheless smiled. Darn!
“Gladly. But right now, you require rest.”
“Let me guess. The rest of the honeymoon won’t be particularly restful.”
Silence.
Big surprise.
