Page 29 of Ned

And if not, then she was the one who’d been had.

Maybe.

“Iris?” Tate had opened his eyes, a grimace on his face. “Seriously?”

“Hey, couz.” She walked over to where he pressed a— “Is this a sock?”

“My sock,” said Hudson, and she glanced at him. He stood away from Tate but close enough to step between them, and she had the sudden sense that he just might do it, too.

So, a patriot, maybe.

The sock dripped blood as she removed it to look at the wound. “From the umbrella.”

“How much did you see?” Hudson held over the garbage can for her to drop the sock into.

“All of it. Get me a hand towel.”

He disappeared into the bathroom.

Tate swallowed. “I’m a little afraid to ask how you’re here.”

“Right back at you.”

He looked good, despite the blood and gore. Still handsome, still the guy who her heart had sort of swooned over. He was about five years older than her, so had been the perfect age for her seventh-grade heart to pitter-patter after.

Now, he looked like the warrior she’d always imagined him to be.

“Are you…” She blew out a breath and took the towel Hudson offered her. He had a nicer room than she did—a king-sized bed, a rarity in Europe, and a sitting area. She’d gotten a single room—single bed, single dresser, barely enough room to get dressed in. But that’s what happened when you were a fancy football star, regardless of which side of the ocean.

She turned back to Tate, rolled up the towel, and pressed it gently into his wound. He sucked in a breath. “A spy?”

She met his eyes.

“No. Not really. I mean—I work for a…never mind. I was supposed to meet your pal here, pick up some information.” He looked at Hudson now. “You still have it?”

Hudson nodded.

“What information?” She said it quietly, but her heart had sort of jumped.

Hudson’s mouth tightened, like he might be the holder of the secrets of JFK. Please.

“I was sent by the CIA to watch you,” she said, probably breaking all protocol, but something wasn’t right in Denmark. “They said you were a traitor.” She looked at Hudson, then at Tate. “Please tell me that I didn’t just land in some treasonous plot.”

“We’re the good guys, Iris,” Tate said, trying to work himself into a sitting position. She helped him. “But I’m curious. Who told you that?”

“My CIA contact. Calls himself Alfonzo. He asked me to take pictures and send them back to him.” She pulled out the phone. Glanced at Hudson. Sighed. “Tell me what is going on, and if I believe you, this goes in the trash.”

“Believe me, couz,” Tate said, but Hudson shook his head.

“How do we know we can trust her?”

She just stared at him. “Hello? It’s me.”

“I know it’s you. Miss I-can’t-even-see-a-targeting-penalty—”

“You tripped. And it would have been pass interference, not targeting—”

“Whatever. Why should I—we—trust you?”

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