Mission: Impossible to Protect (The Impossible Mission Romantic Suspense Series Book 6), стр. 35

Chapter Seventeen

Danni tried not to limp as she hurried to keep up with Lars’s long stride as they crossed the black marble floor of the exclusive Carlyle Hotel. She refused to ask him to slow down despite her ankle hurting like a son of a mother because it meant she would have to speak to him. The airplane’s cabin pressure had played havoc with her injuries. Her fingers were back to sausage size, and her ankle puffed up like she’d skipped her water pill. If she were feeling generous, she should have thanked Lars for his foresight in choosing flats to go with the poorly fitting navy-blue polyester suit.

Injured and running from a homicidal maniac, the only control she had was to ignore her “husband.” She was exerting her power as only a pissed off wife could. Really, there was nothing to say anyway. She hadn’t uttered a word the entire one-hour drive through traffic. She refused to react, especially with Nick’s marine buddies, Ryder and Grayson, the new protection detail, watching and listening. The other two marines, Dylan and Logan, were supposedly setting up surveillance.

Luckily, she slept the entire flight, making it impossible to “discuss” their sweaty night between the sheets. She was between a rock and rock—Lars, dangerous to her heart, versus Miro, dangerous to her life.

Lars stepped into the role of husband exactly as she would have expected from the take-charge commando. In the limousine, compliments of his publishing company, he fell easily into the paternalistic role of lecturing. He had a list of “do nots” and, judging by the amused glint in his eyes, he was enjoying the power he wielded over her. For one minute, she thought he had been hurt when she insisted that she only wanted one night. If he was upset, he recovered quickly with his glib insult. “I don’t have to usually work that hard.”

She kicked herself at the thought that she was some kind of fool who had surrendered to him. And now, as she had known all along, she was the only one with mile-high regrets. For him, she was just another pleasurable night with one of many interchangeable women.

The only redeeming moment of this clusterfuck charade was the fine champagne waiting in the limousine. God, she had to get away from the Jenkins brothers. Now she was swearing like the marines.

For a few minutes, the French bubbly made her feel as if she were back in her old life. Under the influence of the bubbles whizzing like shooting stars, whirling and spiraling upwards, she had convinced herself that her love of the 1903s Art Deco hotel that exuded charm and elegance was enough to make her forget that she and Jax had stayed in NYC during their first weekend away from Boston. They had been so in love… Correction. She had been so in love. The possibility that Jax had ever loved her was as likely as her wearing pantsuits that made her look like a real estate agent trying too hard.

She didn’t flinch when Lars announced the Carlyle as their destination. If anyone had foretold that her perfect life would blow up as it had, she would’ve run naked and screaming into Central Park. Instead of Jax as her husband, she had irresistible, unavailable Lars as a pseudo husband protecting her from yet another drug cartel. This time, this cartel didn’t want her research; they wanted her. Dead. How did a woman “reframe” those lemons into lemonade?

Since her non-wedding and kidnapping, she had shut everything out, shut everything down. No pain in well-constructed walls, but no real joy either. And for the first time in months, she had let herself feel with Lars. She hadn’t been sure if she would ever be able to feel joy, laughter, tenderness, but in his arms, she had felt everything, and it scared the freaking daylights out of her. She didn’t want to feel. Feeling in her life equaled pain and betrayal.

She had spent the last months staying busy, not giving herself any time to think or to feel. At this point, she had no clue how to order and organize all these messy emotions engulfing her. And God, how they all came flooding back now—fear, hurt, and loneliness that she’d stuffed out of sight for so long.

Lars smiled at her, using the Jenkins full-wattage charm as he stopped in the middle of the lobby. “Honey, I’ll sign us in. Why don’t you sit. It was a long flight.”

Lars was adamant that she play his wife in public places where there were cameras or the possibility of being observed. Miro wouldn’t be looking for a couple. Her changed name was on the flight manifest and matched her husband RJ Phillips’s name, neither of whom had any association with the Deans or her life. Lars had always used his pen name during his stays in New York, keeping his identity a secret. Only his agent and publisher knew his real name. As he was still active military, he didn’t want to have any trouble with his team, or with fans, or the enemy being able to find him.

“Of course, honey bear.” Danni leaned, pressing her breast against his arm, and batted her eyes under her thick black glasses despite the discomfort to her forehead. She might not have much to be happy about right now, but irritating Lars always helped lift her spirits.

It was obvious Lars knew nothing about colors by his selection of her eyeglass frames. Redheads shouldn’t wear black frames but browns, creams, and even pale blues. God, could he have made her look any worse?