A Weaver Wedding. Allison Leigh
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though his fingertips seemed to flex against her, all he said was a muttered “Relax.”
She felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in her. Relax? “You’ve got to be kidding.”
His head lowered until his mouth was near her ear. “Honey, I’ve never been more serious.” He pulled her even closer. Until her breasts were flat against him and their legs were nearly entwined.
She could feel each one of his fingers splayed against her spine. “How do I know this isn’t all something you’ve made up, anyway? I’ve never heard of this Hollins thing you’re talking about.”
He smoothly spun her around. “Keep your voice down.”
“Nobody can hear me.” How could they when he wasn’t allowing a centimeter of breathing room between them?
“You never know who might hear what.” His lips brushed against her ear again and a shiver danced down her spine that owed nothing to memory and everything to the present. “And someday I might be curious as to why you’d think I’d make up a story like this. But for now, just know that most people never have a reason to learn about the agency. And that’s a good thing.”
She was perfectly aware that Axel’s answer hadn’t provided any proof at all to back up his claim. Nor did she feel inclined to tell him that she was used to people making up stories to suit whatever agenda they had in mind. Her father had been the absolute master at it.
She realized her cheek was feeling much too comfortable against his soft sweater. Or maybe it was the incredibly hard chest beneath the gray knit that was too comfortable.
She lifted her head, but that only put her forehead right beneath his angular chin. “Not that I believe any of this, but Sloan is notoriously overprotective.” Maybe the trait was a result of their childhood. She had her own issues that had carried over into adulthood, too. That’s what happened when you were raised by a man whose career demanded secrecy. “And I can handle my own safety.”
Axel’s hand crept an inch lower, moving dangerously near the small of her back. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
She deliberately stepped on his foot and wished it were so easy to squash the memory of his lips touching that very same spot where his fingers were drifting. “Sorry.”
She caught the twitch of his lips. “You’re not. But it’s natural that you’re in a defensive mode. I’ve thrown you a curve.”
Again, she felt that hysterical bubble want to escape. If he only knew. “How…understanding of you.” She tried to wedge her hand between them to create at least a minimum of breathing space.
Instead, he just covered her hand with his, probably looking even more loverlike to anyone watching them. “You’re going to give people the wrong idea.” Her heart was pounding and she was painfully aware that he was the reason. Not what he was saying. But him.
“The wrong idea about what? That I like dancing with you?” His fingertips flexed again. “I do.”
“Well, I don’t.”
She felt his lips against her temple. His thumb stroked against the wrist he still held captive. “Liar. Your pulse feels like it wants to jump out of your skin.”
“Anger does that, too.”
She didn’t hear the sigh he gave, but she definitely felt it.
“I wasn’t joking when I said this would be easier with your cooperation. If you want me dogging your footsteps looking like some stalker, then I will.”
She wanted to tear herself out of his arms and run far, far away. Instead, she followed his lead as he wove her around the crowded dance floor in time to the endless ballads that the band was cranking out. “I told you. I can take care of myself.”
She felt him sigh again. His jaw brushed against her cheek, the healthy five o’clock shadow he’d developed softly abrading. “Want me to tell you how that other agent’s family was killed? How they were going through their normal day, never suspecting, never knowing that—”
“Stop.” Her stomach rolled suddenly. “I don’t want the details.”
“And I don’t want to give them,” he assured her softly. “But I will if that’s what it takes to prove I’m serious.” He turned her smoothly to avoid colliding with another couple, and his voice dropped even lower. “We don’t know for certain that the order on Sloan came down from the Deuces. But it’s pretty likely, considering their trial starts next week. If you won’t go along with this for yourself, then do it for Sloan. Protecting people is one of the things I do, Tara. So let me do my job.” His deep voice was gentle.
Seductive.
And she had to brace herself against all of it.
“Then protect Sloan.”
“He’s not my assignment. You are.”
Assignments. Jobs.
His insistence had everything to do with his job and nothing to do with her, personally.
Nothing to do with the days they’d spent in each other’s arms. Certainly nothing to do with the repercussions of those hours. Repercussions of which he was blissfully unaware.
A state of secrecy she wanted to preserve more now, than ever.
A very short, very brief fling was the only thing she shared with this man. But she and her baby were a team now. She’d realized that in the two months since she’d learned she was pregnant.
She’d never be alone again.
No matter how easily she’d fallen for Axel over the course of one weekend four months ago, neither she nor the baby needed a man as unreliable as her father had been in their lives.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” She finally succeeded in tugging her hands out of his and stepped away when the song finished and Hope Clay took the microphone to encourage everyone to hit the newly replenished buffet.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said loudly enough for anyone to overhear, “I have some people I’d like to say hello to.” Without waiting for him to voice the protest forming on his perfectly shaped lips, she turned and joined the mass of people moving off the dance floor in the general direction of the food.
But she didn’t join the line that was even longer now than it had been, nor did she have anyone with whom she particularly wanted to speak. Instead, she slipped through the door leading to the girl’s locker room.
Only there was no easy escape there, either, she realized at the sight of Axel’s mother standing at the row of sinks, drying her hands on a paper towel.
“Hello, Tara.” Emily Clay’s dark hair was swept up with a sparkling clip and—like half the women present—she looked Valentine-appropriate in a slender red cocktail sheath. “What a lovely dress you’re wearing.”
Feeling painfully self-conscious, Tara swished her hand down her dress. “It’s just something I grabbed.”
“You grabbed,” Emily repeated humorously. “Don’t say that around too many women or you might make more enemies than friends. Not all of us can just whip something out of the closet and look like you do.”
Tara didn’t need the long mirror that spanned the row of sinks to know that her face was turning red. “I think you’re describing yourself more than me, but, um, thank you.” She knew she wasn’t beautiful. She was short and mostly unremarkable with freckles on her nose that makeup didn’t always hide, and now she was wearing a dress designed to hide the fact that she was starting to look fat.
Emily, fortunately, didn’t seem to notice anything amiss as she tossed her paper towel in the trash bin and headed for the door. “Be sure and bring my errant son by our tables,” she told Tara with a wry smile as she left. “He’s obviously focused entirely