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The wine did relax her, and they chatted effortlessly. It took Emma nearly an hour to polish off the drink, and when she returned from the ladies’ room with a fresh coat of lip gloss, a second glass sat waiting. What the hell. It was a big night. It took her exactly four sips and ten minutes to realize what was happening.
She scanned her brain for something to say; the only thing that came to mind was his distinguished but closely-guarded military record. So, she kept her eyes trained on him, unable to mask her sadness, and simply said, “conduct unbecoming.” Then she turned and walked away.
“Ms. Porter, I . . .” She let him find the words. “I owe you an apology. I’m appalled at the way I behaved. I’m not used to. . .” He hung his head. Was he embarrassed? “I’m not used to getting a new perspective on a situation.”
Emma switched into auto-response. Her psychologist said it was an emotional safe zone that was understandable given her history. Caroline called it her “robot mode.”
“All right.” “Four o’clock.”
“Ever since she interrupted that meeting—Jesus, was it two years ago? I’ve just . . . I don’t know, wanted to see her again.”
“Here’s the thing. When I first saw you, you were looking at bracelets, the cuff with the opal, I believe. It wasn’t until you spotted me that you moved down to the cufflink case. Then you sought me out to tell your story. That tells me a lot.”
Nathan’s doorman gave Emma a suspicious once-over when she stood in his lobby that evening but relented after getting a second look at her. She was in torn jeans, Chucks, and a grey NYU sweatshirt, her hair in a high ponytail that trailed down her back. The strap of her pale pink bra showed where the neck of the sweatshirt had been stretched out from use. The whole Bergdorf’s excursion had soured her on getting dolled up, so she went with comfort. After checking his computer screen, the doorman gave her a warm grin.
He pulled open the door without looking her way or halting his phone conversation. He walked purposefully into a large living room.
“I just met with my guys, and that’s not their version of things.” He paused listening. “All right. Keep me updated.” He ended the call without pause and pinched the bridge of his nose. Emma wondered if he had forgotten she was there. Then he turned and looked at her. She tried to appear reassuring, smiled, shoved her hands into her back pockets and shrugged. Nathan just stood there and stared. “Fucking perfect.” He shook his head slightly with amused disbelief.
Emily Webster was an American tragedy; the daughter of one of the richest families in the world, abducted as a child and never found. She was the twenty-first century Lindbergh baby.
He felt a pang of guilt for abandoning them, but snipers had short lifespans in the service for a lot of reasons. His was physical. He believed in what he did, and he was good at it, but after a bar fight got out of hand, Herc had ended up with a stab wound in his hand and a severed tendon.
Before she registered the movement in her brain, her hand was brushing his cheek. She gently felt the stubble. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
Nathan passed her the coconut cupcake, and her face lit up. She took a very unladylike bite, then licked the frosting from her lip. “Jesus, you’re beautiful.”
Mr. Wonderful: I’m downstairs. Come as you are.
Nathan had his arm slung around her shoulders, and Emma held the back of his shirt in her fist. She never wanted to let go.
About an hour into their little adventure, Nathan bristled. He tossed his Italian ice into a trash can, and his grip on her tightened. He wasn’t obvious about it, but something had triggered his military awareness. He squeezed her hand, released it, then put his arm around her and pulled her into the circle of his body.
Her knees buckled and Nathan caught her. He saw the unmasked look of distress on her face before she reined it in. “Emma?” “Shit, sorry. Low blood sugar I guess.” Why do I keep using that stupid excuse? She joked as she took a generous bite of lemon Italian ice and instantly gave herself a brain freeze. She smacked her palm to her forehead. It turned out to be the perfect distraction.
He buried his face in her neck and ran his hand up the side of her body, brushing the outer curve of her breast in the most intoxicating way. It was an odd mix of comfort and lust—seeking solace and barely leashing this need. She involuntarily arched into his body.
When they pulled apart, Nathan ran his nose up and down the length of hers.
have a rep.” He air-quoted “rep” and rolled his eyes. “I want to make the parameters of our relationship very clear, so there’s no misunderstanding.” Oh no. She braced herself. “I want to spend time with you . . . to the exclusion of other women.” He laughed to himself. “I almost said to the exclusion of all other people but that would sound a bit crazy, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, I’ve never done it before.“ “Voiced your intentions?” she asked. “Had intentions,” he confessed.
It was then that she’d noticed two Middle Eastern men bringing stuffed animals into a neighboring home with no children in sight.
The door slid open with a metallic groan, and the nanny shoved Emily toward a skinny, smiling guy inside without a word.
Her next memory was being in the back of a large SUV. Her father was holding her, and she was wrapped in a crinkly silver sheet and wearing a huge gray FBI T-shirt. She had been missing for one hundred and forty-three days.
She was never morose or despondent—with the exception of those times when Nathan had gone away.
“Emma, I want to choose my words carefully here. There is not a doubt in my mind that you love him, are in love with him,” he amended. “I also don’t doubt that Nathan could have deep feelings for you. Even as children, you seemed to have an indescribable connection.”
In the photo, he was behind a desk taking a monster bite out of an apple. He was staring directly at the camera, his emerald eyes in sharp contrast to the red of the apple skin. Various red items caught the reader’s attention: a partially obscured file marked ‘Top Secret’ on the desk, the ribbon of a military medal tossed to the side, and in the periphery, barely visible on the floor, a red-soled stiletto. In bold letters across the bottom of the page read the headline: When Does Nathan Bishop Sleep?
“Have a good night.” “You, too, little one.”
You are beautiful. And I don’t mean on the inside. You’re beautiful on the surface where it counts.” Emma laughed, and Nathan returned to kissing her neck.
Nathan’s door was ajar, and she heard water running in the kitchen. As she rounded the corner, she saw his broad back under a soiled T-shirt bent over the sink, his hands resting on the counter on either side.
“Nathan, please. Open the gift.” He stared at the package as if he hadn’t realized it was in his hand. Thunder rumbled and fat drops of rain hit the sidewalk. In the shelter of the alcove, he tore off the paper and shoved it into his jacket pocket. Emma watched him carefully lift the lid and look inside. He stared down at the black rubber sports watch. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. A full minute later, he slowly pulled it from the box and rubbed the bezel between his thumb and index finger. Finally,
“I need to talk to you,” she gasped. “I need to tell you.” “I need to marry you,” he blurted. That got her attention. “What?”
“But you . . . it’s like ‘love’ isn’t a big enough word for what I feel. Like they need to invent some new word for it because what I feel for you makes love seem very small.” She touched her lips to his. He kissed her tears. They both turned to the ocean, only the white caps visible against an endless starry night. “I sky you, Nathan.” He smiled and met her violet gaze. “I sky you, Emily. And I may be shit at telling you, but I’m fucking great at showing you.”
Nathan rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and grinned at her like a teenager about to get laid—well, like a twenty-eight, no, twenty-nine-year-old as of last week about to get laid. She lifted her hand and smiled a smile of complete happiness as she took a step toward him. Then she heard the screech of tires and the nauseatingly familiar slide of a heavy metal door as she was pulled backward.
She noticed that the door didn’t shut all the way; the latch stuck on the door jam and the guard had to give it a final shove to secure it.
“I found their tracker. I removed it.” “You did?” “At Caroline’s yoga studio. I sent it off with another member. I imagine it’s at a West Village townhouse by now.” He shot her a look of pure lust. “That turns you on?”
Only the nearly clairvoyant owner of the local diner, Maggie Malloy, recognized him, but to this day rarely mentioned it. Not even to Charlie himself. It was one of the many reasons why he’d married her.
“Good to see you, Charlie.” Charlie didn’t miss Nathan’s possessive hold on Emily’s waist. As if to convey the same attachment, he held out his hand for Maggie, who had been observing the interaction from the kitchen doorway. “This is my Maggie.” There was no need to elaborate. After handshakes and hugs, Maggie said, “I’ll whip something up. You must be hungry.” Ren’s eyes lit up. “I’ll help. I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”
“Between his testicular cancer and her autoimmune issues from lupus, that pregnancy was probably their only shot,” Twitch added. “Oh God, I feel awful.” Jack Webster cupped his face in his hands. “Dad, you couldn’t have known. Should we blame me for giving them to you, or my friend Lizzie for giving them to me?” “Not to mention that lots of people have fertility issues, and very few turn to international terrorism.
Chat turned from where he was standing at the large circular bay window that framed the darkness and the roiling surf. “What number?” Hercules looked into Chat’s eyes, and seeing a kindred spirit, said without inflection, “Fifty-one.” There was a silent understanding among the group. Hercules had been a sniper and he’d gotten out at fifty kills, a boatload for any elite shooter.
Nathan continued to listen, but Charlie could see he wasn’t connecting the dots. “Nathan, son, Emily’s pregnant.” Nathan’s eyes were wide as saucers, and an enormous smile split his face. In an instant he composed himself.
Hercules hopped down and squatted next to him. “You okay?” Nathan rolled to his hands and knees and looked up at his sniper. “You’re hired.”
