Though she knew the impulse had been well-intentioned, she didn’t need Julien or anyone else to speak for her. She wasn’t going to let his friend intimidate her. As she didn’t have a bucket of water—the thought made one side of her mouth curve—she looked Jean Paul right in his mobster hit man eyes. “Just because I do not want to see us embroiled in another war does not mean I want to see innocent men killed.”
Jean Paul smiled with so much condescension she was amazed he wasn’t choking on it. Or maybe that was just her wishful thinking.
“I assure you that if there is any truth to that reporter’s story, those men are not innocent. What do you think they were doing when they ‘disappeared’? If it was legitimate, why would your government keep silent? Perhaps they do not acknowledge these men because doing so would expose their illegal activity?”
He had a point, but that didn’t mean that American servicemen should be the ones to pay the price for the government’s failures. “I do not like the shadow wars being fought by our Special Forces in many of the hot spots around the world any more than you do, but that’s because I don’t want to see any more of our servicemen who think they are doing the right thing and are only following orders killed or destroyed by war and a government that has turned them into highly skilled machines who can’t adjust to real life when they return. The psychological toll it takes on them is horrible. War is all these men know how to do. Special Forces like SEALs only have it worse.”
She didn’t realize how passionately—and loudly—she was speaking until she finished and realized that more than just the people at her booth were staring at her.
So much for avoiding the “Loud American” cliché.
She felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks. Pushing the painful memories of her father away, she filled the uncomfortable silence with a jest. “Anyway, who knows? Maybe Geraldo will have a TV special and get to the bottom of it.”
Unfortunately she forgot that her audience was too youngand not American, and her attempt at humor was totally lost in translation.
Her ever-gallant boyfriend tried to help her out. “Geraldo?” He picked up the paper. “But I believe the reporter’s name is Brittany Blake.”
She shook her head, deciding it wasn’t worth explaining the overly hyped TV special on the “secret” vaults of Al Capone that were opened live and contained only a couple of empty bottles. Her father used to joke about it.
In the days when he knew how to laugh.
“It was a bad joke about conspiracy theories,” she said. “Forget it.”
“Ah!” He laughed belatedly.
“You speak very passionately on the subject,” Jean Paul said perceptively.
Oddly he seemed to approve. Not that she cared. Although for Julien’s sake she wished she could like his friend. But she didn’t. She’d felt as if a black cloud had descended over them since he arrived.
In response Annie gave a Gallic shrug that a French-speaking Belgian such as Jean Paul should understand. It was none of his business. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will find the ladies’ room.”
Making a quick escape, she heard Julien explain behind her, “WC.”
She’d forgotten that Jean Paul hadn’t spent much time in America. She’d learned from Julien that “bathroom” and “ladies’ room” didn’t translate well in Europe.
For a Tuesday night the pub was packed, and Annie had to “excuse me” her way through the crowd of men in front of the bar—there were very few women—as she made her way to the “toilet.” Given the number of locals, she assumed it was a favorite hangout. Although from what she’d seen of the town, the Harbour (with au) Bar & Guest House probably didn’t have a lot of competition.
She had nearly made it past the long, glossy wooden bar lined with taps of ales and ciders, when the door that she’d been about to go through opened, and she had to step back toavoid being hit. Unfortunately she stumbled over someone’s foot and knocked into—nearly onto—a man who was seated at the end of the bar.
Instinctively she reached out to catch herself before she fell on his lap. One of her hands found his leg, and the other...
Wasn’t gripping rock-hard muscle.
“Oof.”The grunt he made gave the location away. Even through the denim of his jeans, she could feel the unmistakable solid bulge of something else. She pulled her hand back as if it—he—were on fire.
Or maybe that was just her. Her cheeks flamed with mortified heat as she hurried to apologize. “I’m so sorry! I tripped and didn’t see...”
The man looked up from his hunched position over his beer, and the cold, steely blue eyes that met hers from beneath the edge of his faded blue cap cut off her breath like a sharp icy wind.
Her first thought was how the hell had she missed him? Her second wasWhat did I do?
He was a big guy. Tall—even with him seated on a stool, she still had to look up to meet his gaze—and broad-shouldered, he wore an oversized sweatshirt and puffy down vest that, had she not felt the evidence to the contrary, she might have thought hid a little extra bulk. But that bulk wasn’t fat; it was all muscle.
The guy was built like a tank. Or maybe a prizefighter. Beneath the heavy beard—what was with those anyway?—the face that met hers had the tough, pugnacious masculinity of a Tom Hardy or Channing Tatum. Sexy as hell, but maybe a little too much to handle.
She liked men a little softer. And there was nothing soft about this guy. Not just his body, but the way he was looking at her. It might be the middle of summer, but the iciness emitting from those striking blue eyes made it feel like the dark days of December.
Shiver.She managed not to do that, instead giving him a friendly smile. “I’m sorry again. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
