“Your landlord told me where you’d be. He also said you owed him rent.”
“Asshole’s lying.”
“Doesn’t matter. I paid it. Thought you might like to move back in there. More privacy and security. We’ll need both.”
Lachlan grunted. “First my tab, then my rent. Deep pockets, lass.”
“It’s easy when it’s other people’s money to spend.”
“That so?” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “CIA money? Or someone else?”
Gina closed her eyes.So, he knows.
She didnotwant to have this conversation.
EIGHTEEN
Lachlan, four years ago, Key West
God, he needed a smoke.
He’d tried to picture this moment in his head for years. Seeing her again, being in the same room with the woman who captivated him with her bravery, intelligence, and beauty. The woman he was going to marry before it all turned to shit.
“So they weren’t lying. You aren’t with the CIA anymore.”
Gina opened her eyes and stared at him. He’d heard she’d turned into quite the interrogator and now he believed it.
“They?”
“Yeah, lass. Whoever owns your soul now.”
“My soul?” Then the corner of Gina’s mouth curled up. “I left that with you the day I went back to London.”
That was a gut punch. How could she tell him something like that when she’d turned her back on him? On their future? At the same time, her smile and the memories of Gina looking up into his eyes with hers full of hunger stirred him. He desperately needed another cigarette. Instead, he grabbed a stray pen and tapped it on the table as he asked, “Why are you here? It wasn’t just to pick me up off the floor.”
“That part was unexpected, I have to admit.”
Lach dropped the pen and picked up his fork. He twirled it between his fingers. Anything to keep his hands busy, keep them from straying to his shirt pocket. The fork wasn’t cutting it but the pen was at least shaped like a cigarette so he picked it up again.
She leaned forward. “Oh, for God's sake, give me that.” Gina snatched the cheap plastic pen out of his hand. She took off the lid and tossed it away. She pulled out the ink cartridge and popped off the base. Finally, she took out a pocketknife and cut the case to the size of a cigarette and handed it back to him.
“What's this?”
“It's your new cigarette. Stick it in your mouth, you'll feel better.”
He frowned at the empty pen case, but did as she said. Within a minute, his nerves calmed and he stopped fidgeting. He took a piece of paper napkin, tore it, and rolled it into a makeshift filter, stuffing it into the pen. It was no cigarette, not even the ghost of one. But somehow it still made him feel better. It was the first of many cigarette-substitutes he'd have over the next few years. And it worked like a charm every time.
“So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?” he asked again.
“First,” she said, folding her hands. “Want to tell me why you really retired?” Her golden eyes turned cold. An inquisitor’s eyes, not his Sunshine’s. She was gone.
“Got tired of the BS. Figured I only had a few missions left in me anyway before they scuttled me.”
“Really?” One eyebrow rose. “So, why, if you’re tired of BS are you shoveling it at me right now?”
Lachlan looked away.
“Who forced you out?”
