Undercover Pursuit. Susan May Warren
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had her doubts.
She practiced some deep breathing, not glancing at the clock as she lined up to go through customs.
The agent seemed to pity her—or perhaps he just recognized a woman fraying as he released her and her carry-on bag into the country.
Welcome to Mexico. She passed the sign and entered a corridor, bordered by all manner of tourist services—tropical-colored signs advertising tours of lost coves and white-sand beaches, luxury golf packages, deep-sea fishing charters. She trolleyed her bag, the one with the chipped wheel that made a clipping sound as she walked, ignoring the calls of eager agents hoping to sell her a chance to swim with dolphins, learn to scuba dive or cook Mexican cuisine.
Thanks, but she was here for one reason: erase that horrid moment at the engagement party when she’d accused Bridgett of stealing Duncan, the groom.
Stealing—had she really used that word? That was the last time she drank champagne. Ever. One glass and her mouth stopped listening to her brain.
Scarlett smiled at a group of taxi drivers lingering in the cool air-conditioning of the airport and exited out onto the sidewalk. Her sister said a marked taxi would be waiting to take her and the last of the groomsmen to the resort.
Please, don’t let Bridgett have set her up on a blind date. Scarlett could see right through Bridgett’s pitiful attempts over the past six months to set her up, straight to the guilty conscience behind it. But there was no need for it. She and Duncan had never—not really—been a couple. Officially.
Regardless of the hours they spent hanging out after the church singles group events.
Regardless of the times they played tennis, or went cross-country skiing.
And, especially, regardless of what Scarlett may or may not have said at the engagement party.
No, she would be just fine at this wedding as a solo act. Singular. Dateless.
Sigh.
Scarlett had never seen palm trees. They lined the circular boulevard outside the airport. But she must have been miles from the ocean because she couldn’t smell anything but exhaust.
Lost Breezes—there. She spotted a Hispanic man in a white silk shirt, jeans and flip-flops holding a laminated sign. “Lost Breezes?” she asked in English.
He smiled. “Si.”
“Gracias.” Finally, she might be able to use her four years of high-school Spanish.
He reached for her bag. Wait—hadn’t she read something about people masquerading as cabbies and running off with carry-ons? She held her bag tighter. “I’ll take it in the car with me,” she said—or hoped she said—in Spanish.
He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and opened the door of his sedan.
Indeed, the foreshadowed guest sat inside, waiting—impatiently, if she could read his body language. He looked over at her, his lips pursed, his eyes dark, sweat dampening the front of his white Oxford dress shirt. He wore a pair of jeans and black Converse sneakers, and made a feeble attempt to hide his irritation.
“Hi. Sorry I’m late.” She set the carry-on on the floor then climbed in around it.
He gave her a tight smile. “Hi.” He eyed her Uggs and possibly her turtleneck, but it was two degrees in Rochester, thank you very much. Just get her to a beach.
She sat back and noticed that, despite his perspiration, he didn’t exactly smell bad. And, upon closer inspection, she might even call him cute—tousled dark blond hair, golden-brown eyes, and it seemed he might spend some time in the gym. There was confidence in his posture, despite his impatience, as if he expected the world to be on time. And dressed appropriately. Exactly the kind of guy who might be interested in Bridgett.
Or, the kind of guy who might be her sister’s cast-off. Oh, no, please—
“I’m Luke. You must be my date.” He offered his hand to her.
She knew it. For goodness’ sake. She would kill Bridgett when she saw her.
“Okay. Well, I’m Scarlett. And I don’t know what you were told, but I’m just here for the wedding. So, you’re off the hook, pal. You don’t have to be my plus-one.” She gave him a tight smile, ignoring his hand.
He withdrew his hand and gave her a look. “Scarlett. Okay. I admit, I heard you like to work solo, but hey, I’m here to do a job, same as you. So, no, I don’t think I’m off the hook, thanks.”
Wow, that hurt. She liked to work solo? A job? What had her sister said to this guy? She liked a date just as much as the next girl. Just because she hadn’t had one in…well, her friendship with Duncan had nixed any real offers. Still, being her date for the weekend was a “job?” “Thanks, but I just want to get this over with as painlessly as possible. So, really, I don’t need your help.”
And she didn’t. With the exception of the dress—which had to make it in on the next plane—she could handle this wedding with her eyes closed. Nothing short of a terrorist attack would keep her from making sure Bridgett had the wedding of her dreams, and paying the appropriate attention to her “date” would only dilute her focus. She put some sugar in her tone, however, because no man—especially one of Bridgett’s pals—liked getting shut out. “Thanks for the offer, though. I’ll give you a good report, I promise.” Then, as the taxi pulled away from the curb into the mess of traffic, she winked at him. No hard feelings.
He stared at her as if she’d slapped him. “Wow. You really think you’re something, don’t you?”
“Uh…”
“Well, guess what? You’re not getting rid of me quite that easily. For the next three days, I’m your partner, whether you like it or not. So buckle up, honey.”
Awesome. She’d landed her own personal hero. Just what she needed.
Luke Dekker hated working a mission with an operative he didn’t know. He’d read Stacey—er, Scarlett, apparently, was the name she’d chosen for this op—Meyer’s dossier on the plane on the way over, and while she seemed capable on paper, meeting her in person had him second-guessing the entire assignment. Really, I don’t need your help.
And now she looked at him with unadulterated horror on her face, as if he’d just propositioned her.
Luke had been to Cancun before. The first time was a spring-break trip in high school that he barely remembered. Not that he really wanted to remember anything from those days. Still, he didn’t recall the small houses amidst towering resort hotels, palm trees and cracked sidewalks, dusty children playing in dirt lots, but maybe no one saw the back alleys of Cancun unless they really looked.
“I really do know what I’m doing. This isn’t my first time around the block.” He smiled, trying to lighten things up. Somehow, he’d gotten off on the wrong foot with her. Maybe because he kept sticking the other one in his mouth.
She looked even more offended, her eyes blinking. “Well, I’m sure it’s not.” Then she closed her mouth and turned away from him, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge his words.
What sort of penance was this? So maybe he shouldn’t have mouthed off when his boss, Chet Stryker, asked for volunteers for a mission to Cancun. “Hey, I need a tan, Chet.” Did the guy not know sarcasm when he heard it?
Only, maybe the joke was on him, because in the six-hour turnaround where he threw something that resembled swim trunks and wrinkled dress clothes from the back of his closet into his bag, he hadn’t even considered he might end up working with a snow queen.
Hopefully she packed her sunscreen, because the woman wore the hue—and demeanor—of Minnesota in January.
But he wasn’t here to be just an accessory, thanks. This was just as much his mission as hers. And, despite Miss I-Work-Alone’s confidence, the woman needed someone to watch her back as she pretended