Red Clover Inn

Greg thanked her but stuck with his beer. “We haven’t had much chance to talk since I got in from parts unknown. How’s married life for you two lovebirds?”

“It’s perfect,” Heather said without hesitation.

Brody smiled. “Just what I was going to say.”

“We’re loving London,” she added. “Having my family here for the wedding is great. Helps with any homesickness.”

“You’re not down on the farm anymore,” Greg said.

“We have a construction business. My parents live in an old farmhouse, but it’s not a working farm.”

“It’s an expression, Heather.” Greg got a kick out of her. “I’m glad you two are happy. I said you would be, didn’t I?”

“You’re always right, Greg,” Heather said, then drank some of her water.

He laughed but he could feel the rawness of his exhaustion.

Brody lifted his water glass. “Are you going to pass out here, Greg? You look like you need toothpicks to keep your eyes open.”

“Here would be good but Samantha’s marine archaeologist cousin would probably sic the local cops on me.” He abandoned his beer barely two sips into it. “I’ll stumble up to my room.”

“Want me to spot you?” Brody asked.

“No.” Greg snorted as he got to his feet. “Spot me. Hell.”

He did stumble, though. Imperceptibly, he thought, but there was no denying it. He didn’t give a damn. He’d had a rough few months since crawling off his deathbed and going back to work.

How close was I to dying, Doc?

Close.

Seconds? Minutes? I want to tell my ex-wife.

His doctor hadn’t thought that was funny. Laura wouldn’t have, either, but Greg would never tell her. Divorced or not, he was the father of their two teenage children. She’d often grumbled that life as his wife was like being widowed, but she had never wanted him to die for real. Decent of her, considering she’d had a point. He’d left her high and dry too frequently during their marriage. They’d married young and had two kids right away, and they’d never been easy as a couple, not like Heather and Brody. Finally, they’d accepted they no longer were a couple and it was time to move on, end their marriage.

It hadn’t been Laura’s fault. It damn sure hadn’t been the kids’ fault.

They lived in Minnesota near Laura’s family and liked cold weather. Andrew and Megan had no idea what their father’s life was really like. They’d see a Diplomatic Security agent in a movie and think that was it. But it wasn’t.

Greg took the blame, every bit of it, for the distance between them, but he knew, at least intellectually, blame and guilt got him nowhere. He wasn’t going to let them be an excuse to keep his distance, prevent him from living the life he wanted to live.

He swore under his breath.

No way was he going to bed with all that rolling around in his head. A good night’s sleep would help, but it would elude him if he didn’t get a grip first. His demons were part of the reason for his admitted exhaustion.

He walked down the narrow hall to the bar, managing not to fall on his face. He spotted Charlotte Bennett at the bar and grinned at her when she fastened her dark eyes on him. She had creamy skin and thick, rich brown hair that hung in waves to just above her shoulders, and she wore a simple, close-fitting black dress and strappy black heels. Greg would bet a million dollars that her shoes were killing her feet, but she’d never show pain. Not the type.

He sat in a booth. It had a worn wood bench. No cushion. Aches that hadn’t bothered him in months gnawed at him now. It’d been four months since he’d defied his doctors’ predictions and had made a full recovery and returned to duty after being wounded in an ambush late last fall. He’d seen a similar determination in dark-eyed Charlotte, but maybe he’d only been projecting.

The pub had low ceilings and a large open fireplace, unlit given the warm evening. A votive candle glowed on his table. The place was owned by Ian Mabry, a former RAF pilot engaged to Alexandra Rankin Hunt, an English dress designer with a shop down the street and tangled connections to little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.

Greg ordered Scotch. “Whatever you recommend that doesn’t cost a fortune,” he told Mabry, a good-looking sandy-haired guy who didn’t seem to miss the RAF. Greg wondered if he’d miss his job when the time finally came to call it quits. He wanted that moment to be on his own terms, not a bullet’s terms. But he wasn’t contemplating his past or future this weekend, he decided. Especially not tonight, with Scotch on the way.

He settled back and observed tomorrow’s maid of honor. He didn’t know much about the Bennetts. Samantha’s grandfather, Harry Bennett, had earned an international reputation as an adventurer and explorer when he’d ventured to the Antarctic under dangerous conditions. He and some in his party had almost frozen to death. Greg gave an involuntary shiver. He figured he’d done well by not freezing to death in Minneapolis.

Laura, his ex, wouldn’t think that was funny, either.

No wonder they hadn’t been a “forever” match.

Greg focused on eyeing the curve of Charlotte Bennett’s hip under her sleek outfit.

“Do you wear dresses very often given your work as a diver?” he asked, not sure if she’d heard him. Her dagger look as she swiveled to him ended any doubt. He grinned. “No, huh? Did you have that one hanging in your closet or did you buy it special for tonight? Borrow it? Wait. Let me guess. You don’t have a closet.”

“I’m not indulging you.” She swiveled back to her drink, giving him her back again.

“That’s not apple juice you’re drinking, is it?”

No reaction. Greg decided to shut up before Ian Mabry tossed him out for being an ass. The pilot/barman delivered the Scotch himself, a smoky-but-not-too-smoky single malt from, according to Mabry, an Islay distillery.

“So it’s Eye-la not Iz-lay,” Greg said.

Mabry smiled. “I have a feeling you knew that.”

The Englishman withdrew before Greg told him yeah, he’d known. About a decade ago he’d mispronounced Islay in front of a UK-security type who’d relished trying to make him feel like a dumbass. It hadn’t worked, and they’d become friends, drinking expensive Scotch to nonexcess and deliberately mispronouncing one booze name after another.

Greg debated asking Charlotte to join him. Probably not a good idea.

One sip into his Scotch and his fatigue blanketed him, suffocating him. He should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t, instead distracting himself by teasing an obviously smart, tough marine archaeologist.

He could have tackled the fatigue, fought it off and forced himself up to his room, but he took another sip of Scotch.

And he was done.

Toast.

His weariness took him under. He didn’t fight it. There was no reason to fight it. Everyone around him was safe, and he was off duty, secure, in a quiet English pub.

Next thing, he felt something frigid-cold and wet on his neck and then rolling down his back. He bolted upright and noticed Charlotte had moved onto the bench next to him.

He shivered, the wet cold reaching the small of his back. “That was too cold to be your tongue.”

“It was ice.”

“They have ice here?”

“I asked for ice for my glass of water. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t see you pass out.” She dumped the rest of her handful of melting cubes into his Scotch. “You’re done drinking.”

“You just ruined the rest of my excellent single malt.”

“That was the point. Come on. I’ll help you up to your room.”

He debated protesting, but instead he stifled a yawn, his eyes half-shut. The ice had given him a jolt but he was still struggling to stay awake. He could have made it up to his room on his own, but damn. Having attractive, sexy Charlotte Bennett help him? An opportunity not to be missed. He figured he couldn’t go wrong.

“I am feeling a bit woozy,” he said.

“I wonder why.”

“I haven’t had too much to drink.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She slid an arm around his middle. “Up you go.”

She inhaled sharply as she tightened her hold on him. He liked to think it was because she was reacting to being in such close contact with him, but maybe he smelled or something. He offered no resistance as she helped him to his feet, using her legs for leverage. He was a big guy but she clearly knew what she was doing. Another good tug, and she had him on the other side of the table, near the base of the stairs.

“Not bad,” he said.

“I’m used to dealing with inebriated divers.”

“You’re a tough cookie, aren’t you?”

She gave him a steely look, the kind he’d given countless times in similar situations. “You need to call it a night, Agent Rawlings.”

“You aren’t going to dump more ice down my back, are you?”

“Would it help get you up the stairs to your room?”

“There are better ways.”

Her cheeks reddened but it could have been exertion. Probably unhelpful that he was thinking in physical terms, but maybe she was, too.

“You’re going to have to help me,” she said. “I can’t carry you.”

“No piggyback ride?”

“Not unless you...” She shook her head. “No. No piggyback ride.”

She steadied her arm around him and edged him to the stairs, then took his right hand and planted it on the rail. He glanced at her. “You’ll catch me if I fall backward?”

“I’ll get out of your way.”

“Heartless.”

“Practical. We’d both stand a better chance of not getting hurt.”

He looked up the steep, narrow stairs and grimaced. “Sure you can’t carry me?”

“Positive.” Charlotte smiled with understanding. “Might as well be the last few yards climbing Everest, huh?”

“But it’s not. It’s a set of stairs in an English pub.”

“This is true.”

He made no comment. As he started up the stairs, she eased her arm from around him and placed her hand on his hip, obviously hoping that would help stabilize him. “Are you sure you can manage?” she asked him.

“Absolutely. I can do stairs.”

He faltered only once but Charlotte didn’t have to intervene. When they reached the second floor, he grinned at her. “Are you sorry I didn’t fall backward and get tangled up with you?”

“No.”

Her brown eyes were enough to melt him. His grin broadened. “I bet you’re not as cool and heartless as you’re making out right now.”

“Let’s just get you to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You know what I mean, Agent Rawlings,” she said, starchy.

“Brody and Heather have gone to the wedding hotel. I’m at your mercy. Brody would have left me under the booth. Nowhere near as fun as having you put me to bed.”

She sighed. “What’s your room number?”

“Crisp and efficient, aren’t you, Charlotte Bennett?” He pointed vaguely. “It’s the second door on the right.”

“Key?”

“I can manage the key.”

“Actually, I’m not sure you can, and I suspect you aren’t sure, either.”

He decided he must look even worse than he felt. He reached into his jacket for the old-fashioned key and handed it to her. She nudged him down the hall, but he was more awake, or at least more alert. Maybe it was having a wall next to him should he collapse, or maybe mounting the stairs had perked him up. Whatever the case, they arrived at his door without incident.

“Where’s your room?” he asked her.

“Down the hall.”

“Do we have connecting doors?”

“No. There’s a room between us.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t know if you’re teasing or just making small talk in an awkward situation, but it doesn’t matter. Two seconds and you’ll be in your room and can get some rest before tomorrow. I don’t want you to make a scene.”

She shoved his key in the lock. One try and she had the door open.

“Efficient,” Greg said.

She tucked the key into his jacket pocket and held the door open. “In you go, Agent Rawlings.”

“Greg. Gregory is fine, too. So is Agent Rawlings, but it’s too formal now that you’re in my hotel room.”

“I’m not in your hotel room.”

“Right. It’s a pub that lets rooms. It’s not a real hotel or even a B and B or an inn.”

“I’m not in your room, period.”

He felt a wave of fatigue and forced himself to stay upright. He attempted a grin. “You’re not going to make sure I get to bed without collapsing?”

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll wait outside the door, and if I hear a thud and think you hit your head or otherwise hurt yourself, I’ll call for an ambulance.”

Greg stood straight, leveling his gaze on her. “I’ll be fine, Charlotte. I’m not sick or drunk. Thanks for your help.”

The pink returned to her cheeks. “You’re exhausted,” she said finally. “Get some sleep. See you at the wedding.”

“How’s your maid-of-honor dress?”

She ignored him and left, shutting the door quickly—not in his face but it was close.

Greg managed to make it to the bed before he collapsed.

No thud for Charlotte to call backup.

* * *

Charlotte didn’t breathe normally again until she reached her room, shut the door and kicked off her shoes. She didn’t know how she’d made it up the stairs in them. Her feet ached. Adrenaline had undoubtedly helped keep her from feeling any pain.

She stared at the locked door next to the closet door. She’d lied. Her room did adjoin Greg’s room, and it did have a connecting door—inaccessible by either one of them without the key. There’d been no point in telling him and getting his imagination fired up. He needed sleep, and so did she, if for different reasons.

Her room was adorable, decorated with warm fabrics and simple furnishings. A small window looked out on the village street, dark and quiet now. She didn’t hear any noise from the pub below her. She supposed the barman would have dealt with Greg if she’d left him in the booth. Presumably, she’d see him at the wedding tomorrow, and then that would be that. They’d be on their separate ways.

She peeled off her dress. Her maid-of-honor dress was at the wedding hotel. She appreciated Samantha’s asking her to be her maid of honor and didn’t regret saying yes—but she’d come close to saying no. Unsaid between them had been the reasons why. “You’re who I want as my maid of honor, Charlotte,” Samantha had told her. “You’re as close to a sister as I have, and you’re my best friend, but I’ll understand if you just want to be a guest.”

“Thank you, Sam. I’m honored. I’d love to be your maid of honor.”

Charlotte had meant every word, but she also knew it wouldn’t be easy to walk down that aisle tomorrow without memories bubbling up. She’d just have to work at stifling them. It wasn’t her wedding. It was Samantha and Justin’s wedding, and Charlotte wanted to do her part to make it a wonderful day for them.

She washed up, slipped into her nightgown and crawled under the cozy duvet in the double bed. She listened, but she didn’t hear anything from the adjoining room. Greg Rawlings was similar to other alpha types she knew in her work. While she appreciated the training and dedication that no doubt went into his job as a DS agent, she was well aware that even tough guys bled, got sick and messed up. The problem wasn’t that she wanted to believe they were indestructible. They wanted to believe it.

She shut her eyes, giving in to her own fatigue. Even after her long day, she had no sign of a headache.

Progress.

But she didn’t want to make too much of it, and she knew getting rid of her headaches didn’t mean she’d ever dive again.

She put that thought out of her mind and pictured Greg instead, half-asleep, genuinely exhausted and yet still capable of teasing—and, no doubt, of getting himself to his room.

She put him out of her mind, too. She’d done her bit for him, but Greg Rawlings was a fit, capable man.

The Diplomatic Security agent in the next room wasn’t her problem.

Two

Greg managed to take a shower, pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and tie on a pair of running shoes when he woke up at oh dark thirty. He’d been wiped out when he’d arrived in London yesterday. Mop-the-floor-with-him exhausted after months of nonstop, high-intensity, high-stress work. Not an excuse for passing out in an English pub, but no harm, no foul.

As he started down the steep stairs, he remembered more of his encounter with Charlotte Bennett last night than he wanted to remember.

“Should have had more to drink.”

Breakfast was set up in the same room as last night’s party. Eric Sloan, a police officer and the eldest of the Sloan siblings, invited Greg to join him. Greg had met him briefly in February. Eric resembled the rest of the Sloans: dark haired, blue eyed, strong. Straightforward. Another Sloan trait. It was still the middle of the night back home in New England, but Eric looked wide-awake. Probably used to odd hours. He, too, had on jeans and a sweatshirt.

Greg sat at Eric’s table by a partially open window, exchanged a couple of pleasantries, ordered coffee and then got up again and went to the cold buffet table.

He returned with Weetabix and cut fruit. “I’ve never had Weetabix,” he said. “Have you?”

Eric shrugged. “It’s like Shredded Wheat?”

“Sort of. I think it’s one of those things you can do anything with. Add fruit, peanut butter, cream cheese, hot milk, cold milk. Probably can make tacos out of it.”

Eric didn’t look amused or interested. He had coffee. Black. Nothing to eat yet.

“Brody and Heather made it back to the wedding hotel?” Greg asked.

“As far as I know. Just my brother Christopher and I are here. The rest of my family’s at the hotel, too.”

“Christopher’s the full-time firefighter?”

“Yes. The youngest brother. Justin’s a volunteer firefighter.” Eric drank some of his coffee. “I skipped the buffet. Just having the hot breakfast.”

“There’s a hot breakfast?”

A slight smile. “You aren’t restricted to Weetabix.”

Suddenly starving, Greg ordered a full English breakfast minus the black pudding. He wondered if Charlotte would be down for breakfast before leaving for the wedding. Since she’d come in from Scotland, she was on the same time as the Cotswolds and wouldn’t be jet-lagged. Early riser? Late riser? He gave himself a mental shake. Last night was over. Time to behave.

“You’ll enjoy staying at the inn for a bit,” Eric said.

Greg tore open his Weetabix. What inn? Had he zoned out and missed something? He dumped the two biscuit-like triangles into his bowl. “I have some time before I need to be in DC for my new assignment,” he said, neutral.

“Great,” Eric said. “Brody says you like to camp. You can pitch a tent out back if you want. The inn could have bats.”

Bats. Still clueless, Greg added some of his cut fruit to the Weetabix. “Good location?”

“It’s within walking distance of the village but feels more remote.”

Okay, getting some specifics. This village? Another village in the Cotswolds? Was this mystery inn located in England? Was staying there Brody and Heather’s idea? Greg was stumped. He had no memory of discussing an inn, with or without bats, with anyone, ever.

“It has an open field on one side,” Eric added. “Makes sense given its name.”

The waiter set a coffee press on the table as Greg poured cold milk over his fruit and Weetabix. Maybe he should have waited and had some coffee before going to the cold-buffet table. “I don’t remember the name of the inn...”

“Red Clover Inn.”

“Cute name,” Greg said, desperate now. What had he done? He cleared his throat. “Homey sound to it.”

“Justin and Samantha want to keep the name. I don’t care one way or the other. It sounds more like it should be out in the country rather than a half mile from the village. We bought it on a whim. The owner died without a proper will and there was a family squabble. It took some time to get sorted out. They couldn’t wait to sell the place.”

The Sloans hadn’t struck Eric as people who did things on a whim, but Heather Sloan had married Brody after a short romance and now Justin Sloan was marrying Samantha Bennett after meeting her in a fire last fall when she’d slipped into Knights Bridge in search of pirate treasure.

People who knew their own minds, maybe.

But...wait...the Sloans owned this inn?

Greg poured his coffee and set the press down. He was an elite federal agent who protected ambassadors and other dignitaries in and outside the United States, and he damn well could figure out that Eric was talking about Knights Bridge, his hometown in rural New England, about two hours west of Boston. Greg hadn’t expected to return to Knights Bridge except maybe to visit Heather and Brody when they built their place on the lake where Brody had grown up. And that was a big maybe.

Greg tried the Weetabix. It was fine. Good, in fact. “Definitely waited too long to give this stuff a try.” He was buying time. Given Eric’s narrowed eyes, Greg suspected the guy’s cop instincts had clicked into gear. He ate more of his cereal. Hard to look suspicious eating cereal. “The fruit helps. The inn sounds like a great family project.”

“We’ll see. It’s a regular country inn. Or it was. It hasn’t been anything for a while.”

Glad his mouth was full and he didn’t have to respond, Greg waited for Eric to head to the cold-buffet table. He got out his phone and surreptitiously texted Brody.

I’m staying at an inn in KB?

Brody’s answer came right away. Yes.

Greg grimaced. Why?

You’re at a loose end. You’re looking after the place.

How long?

While Justin and Sam are on their honeymoon.

A week?

Maybe two.

When did I agree to this?

Text last night after I got back to my hotel.

I was asleep.

Ha.

Greg drank some of his coffee. His head was going to explode. He didn’t want to mess up anyone’s honeymoon, but he’d obviously been impaired when he’d agreed to this mission, or whatever it was. He typed again: Animals?

Bats, mice, spiders. No pets or farm animals.

That meant no cat or dog or pet gerbil to look after, just the place itself, which presumably had been uninhabited for a few years and would be fine without him playing caretaker. He could bow out. Two or three days, never mind longer, next to a field of clover—there had to be clover, right, considering the inn’s name?—would send him over the bend. He didn’t do well sitting still.

He had time to come up with a face-saving excuse and ease out of this thing.

Eric returned to the table with fresh fruit. Their hot breakfasts arrived. Greg dove in. Weetabix would do but even better was a plate of fried eggs, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, sausages, bacon, fried bread and baked beans. Even with wedding food in his near future, he figured stoking up now was a good idea. He needed his full faculties. Fatigue and a slight hangover wouldn’t help him work out how to get out of this Red Clover Inn deal without pissing off a bunch of Sloans, not to mention his friend Brody.

Christopher Sloan joined them. He, too, seemed to Greg like a solid sort. He’d come to England alone for his older brother’s wedding. The Sloans had struck Greg as a tight-knit lot. That didn’t mean there weren’t occasional tensions between them.

He didn’t bring up Red Clover Inn and instead asked Christopher his plans while in England.

“I got here last weekend,” Christopher said. “I had a great time. Good break. I go home tomorrow. Have to be back at work on Monday.”

Eric was also headed back tomorrow. Greg relaxed. There’d be enough Sloans around to look after this old inn of theirs. They didn’t need him.

After breakfast, he went up to his room. He glanced down the hall but Charlotte’s door was shut tight. He knew she’d lied about staying down the hall. He’d heard her going into the room adjoining his. In her place, he probably would have lied, too, what with his behavior last night.

He’d been tired as hell, and in a mood.